


The world below is not so mean

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dogboys and Doggirls, Families of Choice, First Time, Frottage, Genital Torture, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Magic, Multi, POV Character of Color, Polyamory, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Telepathy, Whipping, face-slapping, polyamory negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "Have you ever...""Probably."Athos drops his hand and *looks* at him.Porthos grins and waggles his eyebrows again."Porthos.""Look, mate, I haven't done everything in real *life*, but we're talking about *fantasies*. I can be a right imaginative —""Have you ever dreamed of being thoroughly *punished*, Porthos.""Uh.""Have you ever dreamed of being taken in *hand* and *corrected* for your numerous *failings*." And Athos raises that eyebrow at him.Porthos licks his lips."As I thought —""Wait just a minute now, brother."





	1. There's something about Treville.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Vague, AU-ized references for things mentioned up through S2. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: So it's been a rough couple of months for various reasons. I've been writing off and on, but after migraines left me unable to write for over a week, I was going pretty crazy. I asked my Jack for a prompt, and they gave me: "Write about Hugo's smiles. Or Treville's." This pretty much exploded out of me, because? I am predictable.
> 
> Acknowledgments: With much love and appreciation to Pixie, Melly, Spice, Liz, and, of course, my Jack, for audiencing, encouragement, hand-holding, cheerleading, and many helpful suggestions. I can't do this without y'all.

It's the smiles that tell him everything is going to be all right. 

It's not that Porthos doesn't know that literally anyone can pull on any kind of smile at any *time* to help tell their stories — and fuck you over *royally* — but the Captain's smiles aren't... like that. 

They're different, somehow. 

Right from the *beginning*, they tell Porthos that it — all of it, from Porthos's enlistment in the King's Musketeers to the state of the world around them — is going to be all *right*. More than that — that it's all going to be all right in part *because* Porthos is right here. 

("You may not believe me, yet, Porthos — but you're where you belong.") 

That, right there.

Which was odd, to say the least. Porthos had worked hard to educate himself — to make himself *more* than just another gutter rat from the Court of Miracles — and he likes to think that he'd done a pretty good job, overall. 

But it's still dead obvious that he *is* from the Court, and there were — *are* — still a lot of things he doesn't know. 

He doesn't *have* his commission, yet, and he *won't* — not for a while, yet. Not until he makes himself *right*. 

So the Captain's smiles are... odd. 

Heavy. 

*Different*. 

He asks the other men about the Captain, of course — that being the kind of bloke he is — and he gets a lot of interesting information. 

That he was one of the best of the first generation of Musketeers isn't a shock, and neither is the fact that he was apparently one of the best *teachers* when he was a lieutenant. 

But there are other little details, too. Benoit tells Porthos that the Captain was 'a wild one' when he was young, that he was 'devoted to his brothers and the regiment', but that he'd had 'more than a few discipline problems' — and that's *all* he'll say. 

The other older men laugh ruefully and give each other *looks* when Porthos asks about it, and that tells its own story. 

Especially when *Athos*, who's been giving Porthos the lion's share of his training — and the lion's share of his *actual* companionship, silence and bleak moods and resolute drunkenness and all — says, in the middle of teaching Porthos what military fencing is *really* about: "You've... been asking about the Captain." 

"Uh — yeah, I have," Porthos says, and dodges — 

Parries —

"Mostly the older men, y'know, I figure they have the best information —" 

"He's my godfather." 

And that. "Oh. Uh. Should I apologize?" 

"You should get your guard — yes, almost — perfect," Athos says — 

"Thank you —" 

"Attack —" 

"Right you are," Porthos says, and does just that — 

"I'll tell you. What you'd like to know." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"Yes," Athos says, and his defense is perfect, smooth, easy — so wonderful to *learn* from. "You're not the sort of man to ask disrespectful questions." 

"I..." 

"Mm? And faster." 

"Right you are," Porthos says, and picks up the pace — 

"Good —" 

"Thank you, mate, but — uh — I was wondering about his *past*. About — Benoit said he was *wild*, and the other men give each other — oh, fuck, you just killed me about six times." 

"Only twice," Athos says, and taps Porthos's belly with the practice sword. "You lose caution when you pick up speed with your right." 

"Do I, then? Let me just..." And Porthos runs through the moves he'd made, fences with Athos's shadow — "Oh — shit. I left myself wide open." 

"Your size is an asset in any number of ways —" 

"But you just love using it against me, too, I hear you," Porthos says, and grins — 

Athos smiles back. "But what do the other men give each other?" 

"*Looks*, mate," Porthos says, and moves back into a guard position. "Like they're holding back *countless* stories about a *really* wild man." 

"Well," Athos says, and smiles wryly. "They — his brothers, excepting my father, who was his *older* brother — called him 'Fearless'." 

"*Shit*." 

"When they didn't call him 'meneur' —" 

"Oh my *God* —" 

"— and when they didn't call him various deeply obscene... well. They did *try* to hide that from..." And Athos trails off and frowns *hard*. 

It does and *doesn't* look like one of his usual trips into his own awful memories, whatever they are. It's... angrier. 

More frustrated. 

Porthos stands down. "Athos...?" 

"I would like..." And Athos narrows his eyes and glares at the *ground*. 

"What would you like, mate? I'll help you *get* it —" 

"Come out with me tonight. Now. Please." 

Porthos blinks. They don't usually stop training until the sun is *all* the way down, and right now there are still men milling around and *working*. "Are you sure?" 

Athos breathes — pants, really. And then he looks up. "Yes. I need... I need to speak to you. Away from here." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows, but he's not really asking for more information, yet. He's *had* some time with Athos — you've got to give the man his head. 

Let him talk — or not talk — on his own time. 

Let him... work things out in his own head, a little. 

So what Porthos is *also* doing is taking Athos's practice sword and putting it up with the others — 

"Thank you —" 

"Anytime, mate. Let's go get washed up."


	2. This is why you talk to people outside your own head, Athos.

They're two and a half — closer to three, for Athos — tumblers of wine down, and Athos hasn't said anything, yet. 

It's all right; Porthos can wait. 

It's a nice change to be lounging in a tavern before it's *completely* black outside, and before the *real* arseholes and criminals show up. 

As usual, Athos has picked a dive no other Musketeers would be caught dead in, and —

That's also nice. 

Companionable. 

At first, Porthos had thought that was all about Athos not wanting to be seen with him where the *real* Musketeers drank, but now... 

Now he knows it's all about Athos wanting to be alone, and wanting to make a space where they can be alone *together*. 

So maybe he's thought, once or twice or a *lot*, about floating some offers Athos's way. 

Some nice, friendly, low-pressure — 

"I had a wife." 

— or not. Or... maybe? "Well, mate, the way you said that made it sound bloody horrible, and I'm absolutely listening," Porthos says, leaning in so Athos doesn't have to speak up one bit. 

Athos frowns direfully. 

Downs the rest of his wine — 

Porthos pours for both of them — 

"I want to... tell you this," he says, and sounds *bemused*. 

"I want to hear it." 

"No, I. I want to *tell* you this, and I thought it was only... only because it would make it easier to be completely honest about the Captain, about my childhood..." 

Porthos frowns. The Captain's in this somehow? No, wait — "It isn't only because of that?" 

"No," Athos says, and downs his wine, practically in one swallow. 

Porthos pours. 

Athos lifts his tumbler — 

*Grips* it like he wants to crush it in his *fist* — 

And sets it down. "I want to tell you, because you have been. My friend." 

Porthos beams helplessly. "I like *that*." Porthos reaches across the table and claps Athos's arm. "You've been a *wonderful* friend to me —" 

"I *haven't* —" 

"You *have*. Training me up and keeping me company and letting me know what's what —" 

"Any man with *sense* —" 

"Would want to be *your* friend, Athos." 

Athos stares at him wonderingly for a long moment, the way he does when Porthos has said something that just doesn't quite fit in his head. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "Trust me, eh?" 

"I do," Athos says *solemnly*. 

And Porthos knows that was — deadly serious. Completely and utterly. "Well, when it comes to it, mate, I trust you with my *life* — and everything that *matters* *about* my life." 

Athos gives him a *burning* look — 

A *wild* look — 

"Yes. That." 

"Right, so —" 

"I must ask you... not to tell anyone what I'm going to tell you." 

"What — of course I won't —" 

"I believe you'll be tempted to tell the Captain. To tell — my godfather," Athos says, and drinks. And smiles with bitter wryness. 

Porthos frowns and drinks, too, topping them both off. "Why's that?" 

"Because my wife killed my brother Thomas —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"— who was the Captain's other godson —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"I had her hanged immediately. I had her." Athos's expression crumples —

"Shit — oh, shit, *Athos* —" And Porthos moves his chair closer to Athos, hugs him, holds him, *clutches* him — 

Athos is stiff and *unyielding* in his arms — 

"C'mon, brother — fuck, now I know why you hate when I *call* you that —" 

"I don't hate it." 

"What — what?" 

"Any man with sense... I am honoured by your brotherhood," Athos says, and his voice is low, hoarse, *rough* — 

Porthos growls and hugs him *tighter* — 

"You must not — I don't know the truth of. I don't know why she killed Thomas. I don't know her real *name*." 

"What? What do you mean?" 

Athos makes an incomprehensible noise and scrubs a hand down over his face. His eyes are reddened, but dry. "Every word out of her mouth, practically, was a lie. I knew that from the beginning, when she came to my manor house with a story of carriages with thrown wheels and dastardly servants. She was beautiful, and the way she looked at *me*..." 

"You wanted her." 

"Like I'd never wanted anyone else," Athos says, in a shaking voice. "She looked at me like... an opponent to be bested. *Physically*. She didn't *allow* that I might have the intellect to be worth besting any other way for days. And I... no woman had ever looked at me that way before. I was. I was..." 

"You were in love," Porthos says, and wonders how much you can honestly hate the dead. He's always tried to ease people *away* from doing that, from *feeling* things like that — 

You can twist yourself up so *badly* that way — 

But...

"I fell in love in moments. I *helped* her lie to me about the places she'd never been, the parties she'd never attended —" 

"Fuck, brother... wait, where was — where was *Thomas*? I know you had already lost your parents by then —" 

"On his extended holiday in Greece when 'Anne' and I began. When he came home, he saw her for... he investigated her. And talked to me about it. He didn't actually try to convince me away from marrying her, though." 

Porthos frowns. "No?" 

Athos smiles bitterly again. "He knew I'd chosen her for myself. That was... that was important to us. He asked me if I was happy, and when I told him that I was happier than I'd ever been, he threw himself into my arms like a much younger boy and vowed that we would be a family." 

"Fuck. Oh, fuck..." 

"Everything seemed... perfect. Thomas witnessed our marriage, and I made quiet plans to introduce 'Anne' into larger society — and, of course, to the Captain. And then, one day I came home from hunting to find her spattered with blood from head to... to *foot* —" 

Porthos growls and — he knows he *has* to be squeezing Athos hard enough to hurt, but — 

"She said he'd tried to rape her." 

Porthos *grunts* — "She —"

"I couldn't. I *couldn't*, after all her lies, after... after growing *up* with Thomas —" Athos growls and *shoves* himself back. "I don't mean to *excuse* myself —" 

"*Brother* —" 

Athos *flinches* — 

"*Shit* —" Porthos *grips* Athos's shoulders and squeezes hard. "You did the only thing you could do." 

"You don't *know* that —" 

"I bloody *do*. She — you said it yourself. She lied to you constantly. You *knew* she wasn't there for anything but to steal from you and probably kill you both *anyway* —" 

"No — *no* —" 

"All right, she waited for Thomas not to be there. She was *just* planning to murder *you*." 

Athos pants — and stares. 

"Yeah, think about it. You're all alone. You're — how long had it been since your parents had died in that carriage accident?" 

"I — I — three months." 

"Right, you're all alone, you're grieving, you've never been connected to *anyone* for romances and the like, everyone in the gentry knows you're kind of odd and quiet... you were a sitting *duck* — as far as people like *her* were concerned. 

Athos frowns. "Thomas and I were alone —" 

"Right, mate, here's a question for you that I already know the answer to." 

"I... all right?" 

"How was *Thomas* at court, eh? Was he awkward? Odd? Did people think he was a bit off?"

"*No*. He was — he was a *brilliant* courtier, a polymath, he could do anything he set his mind to. He only showed his strangeness when he was comfortable —" 

"So why do you think *she* didn't know you were the easier mark?"

Athos opens his mouth — and closes it. "You think she had me watched." 

"As much as she could. Everyone pays attention to gentry, mate. It's just practical — if you *don't* pay attention, you might fuck up and say or do the wrong thing in front of the wrong person. It's just not that *hard* to get information *about* gentry if you really put your back into it. You know that," Porthos says, making his voice gentle. 

Athos swallows — and huffs. "You could've tried harder with the Captain." 

"Yeah, I could've. But then it might've gotten *back* to him in a way that *offended* him," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "*Somehow* I'm thinking he's got more eyes than *most*." 

"He most assuredly does. I." Athos frowns at him again. 

Porthos squeezes his shoulders. "Tell me. Tell me everything." 

Athos takes a sharp breath. "You mean that. You... mean everything you say." 

And, maybe, Porthos is getting why that means so much to Athos. "Yeah. I do. Every word." 

Athos nods slowly. "Then... I must ask you..." 

"Yeah?" 

"Do you truly not *judge* me for my actions? For my *inaction*." 

"Oh, brother, shit, no. You were in love, and you couldn't have predicted what would happen. That — that just wasn't your *world*. She was *counting* on that. You *have* to know she was counting on that." 

Athos shudders. "I think... she did love me..." 

"Athos —" 

"I think she felt *something*. We had so much together; we didn't — we didn't *scruple* when we *made* love; we didn't scruple with how we *touched* each other —" 

"She was human and had a beating heart, and you were yourself, brother — she would've been an unrecognizable *monster* if she didn't feel *something* for you. But that —" 

"Doesn't matter?" 

And that... was an honest question. 

Porthos feels more than a little *unqualified* — no, no. 

"It matters. Of course it matters, because it makes it hurt more. It twists you up more, and makes you question *everything* more —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"And that's the way it *has* to be *anytime* you have a liar in your life." 

"What...?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "They... fuck everything up, brother. You get to thinking you know what the world is like, on a day to day basis, and then you get close to a liar — the kind of liar who lies literally all the *time*, except for a bare *few* times — and suddenly you don't know *anything*." 

"I — *yes* — that's — reality is *meaningless*!" 

"It isn't, though. It *isn't*. Because once you get the liar out of your life —" 

Athos opens his mouth — 

"— and out of your *head*? Once you get people around you who are *honest*? Then you can see the world — and *yourself* — as they really are again. Then you can get the ground under your feet and the sky above your head and feel like you *belong*." 

Athos shudders. "You've... had a liar in your life." 

"Yeah. Not like you did, but yeah. Victor, his name was. He fucked us *all* up — and over — when we were coming up. He had one story for this one and another story for that one and another story for *that* one, and he could make you think all the *others* were lying about what the real story was while he was stealing you blind." 

"That's disgusting." 

"Yeah. It is," Porthos says, and meets Athos's eyes steadily. 

Athos's eyes get *wide* for a long moment — and then he swallows and nods. "Thank you. I... I will think about everything you've said." 

"I know you will," Porthos says, smiling and clinking their tumblers together. 

"Mm, yes, let's," Athos says, and they drink — 

Porthos finishes the bottle topping them off — 

Athos calls for another — and stays good and close even when the maid comes by with it. 

Even when he's pouring — 

Even when his face settles out of its *most* strained lines and he smiles. "But I was going to tell you about the Captain." 

"We can talk about anything —"

"He didn't try to make me socialize with any of the other men. When he came to me, after I informed him of Thomas's death — and gave him a story of ague to keep him from asking questions — and dragged me far enough out of the bottle that I could enlist..." Athos smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "I was worried that he'd throw lieutenants at me in an effort to get me to... cheer up." 

"Uh. He seems... smarter than that?" 

"He truly is," Athos says, and huffs. "He left me to my own devices, occasionally dressing me down for my drunkenness... until you came." 

Porthos blinks. "He... talked to you about *me*?" 

"No. Not the way you mean. You came to me on your very first day with us, and it was simple good sense to begin working with you. It was clear that you *wanted* to learn, and, frankly, if the Captain thinks a man is a good prospect to be a Musketeer, then he *is*. It was only after we'd worked together for a week — spending nearly every moment together because you indulged me in my *craving* to teach someone who could learn so quickly and so well and with such an open *mind* —" 

"And also you're the best teacher I've ever *had*, *and* we were making friends right quickly —" 

Athos hums. "He came to me. You had left to see if there were any leftovers to be had in the mess, and I was considering what to teach you the *next* day you consented to learn from me, and then he was striding up and doing a terrible job of hiding a smile. I hadn't seen that expression on his face in... too long. I rather stared." 

"His smiles are..." Porthos licks his lips and shakes his head. "But tell me. What did he say?" 

"He gave me a *proud* look, as if I'd done something perfectly remarkable. I remembered those looks from my childhood training. I remembered them well. They brought back... countless happy memories. 

"Too happy. I thought of Thomas and shuddered. And I asked him what his orders for me were, just as if we had never been family," Athos says, shaking his head once and drinking more. 

"It's all right —" 

"It isn't. But... he said, 'I don't have orders for you today, son. Only this: I *strongly* suspect that Porthos du Vallon is going to be riding with you someday *soon*... and I highly approve of everything you're doing to make it happen *sooner*.'" 

Porthos blinks and *stares* — 

Athos searches him a little — "Is that... hm. Does that bother you?" 

"What? No! I just — he — *really*?" 

Athos raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blushes and looks down at his wine — no. He looks *up* into Athos's pretty eyes and smiles ruefully. "Mate. *Brother*. The *only* thing I want as much as my commission is to ride with you. Is to be *good* enough to ride with you." 

"Which of those things?" 

"*Both*." 

"Are you —" 

"I'm *sure*," Porthos says, and laughs, cupping the back of Athos's neck instead of his shoulder and giving him a little shake. "You're my *best* mate. I can't... well, of course the other blokes are great, and I wouldn't *mind* riding with them —"

"But. You want to ride with me." 

"*Yes*. I dream about it, you know? The two of us riding out, or stuffed into a draughty tent talking down the moon, or fighting back to back — all of it. *All* of it." 

Athos gives him another wild look. "I... dream the same dreams." 

Porthos grins. "Yeah, eh? *And* the Captain approves. This is like... like when my mum got me to go play with Flea for the first time!" 

Athos blinks rapidly — "I have fewer... assets?" 

Porthos snorts and leers. "Don't sell yourself short, brother." 

"I — brother," Athos says, gently scolding and blushing at the same *time* — 

And Porthos wants to float an offer very, very, *very* badly... but he doesn't think it's the time. He settles for keeping his gaze locked with Athos's and licking his lips — 

Athos licks *his* lips — "But I was going to tell you more about... Fearless." 

Porthos laughs. "Not the *ringleader*?" 

"I didn't get to see *him* very much," Athos says, and smiles wryly. 

"Oh, yeah, I imagine they all kept that away from the children." 

"As much as they could," Athos says, and huffs twice. "They would say the most..." 

"Mm?" 

"They were *constantly* making jokes about sex. About all *sorts* of sex." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "*All* sorts of sex?" 

Athos locks gazes with *him* — "They were all lovers." 

Porthos's jaw drops — no, wait, wait — "*All* of...?"

"My father, my mother, the Captain — who was my Uncle Treville then — and two other Musketeers, my Uncles Kitos and Reynard." 

"*Shit*!" 

"It's my understanding..." 

"*What*?" 

Athos frowns... "They weren't secretive people, as a rule, but there was always something they hesitated to tell Thomas and me. There was another lover — I *think*. Another woman, though I don't know her name or how she was connected to all of them. By my own observations, she had to have been closest to Treville — when the topic of her came up, he always seemed closest to *breaking* — but I have no idea what happened to her." 

"Oh... fuck. And he's lost all of them now." 

Athos nods. 

"*You've* lost all of them — oh, brother —" 

"I'm — I won't say I'm well —" 

"*Good* —" 

"But I think, sometimes, that I have the most *acute* guilt about not being able to give Treville a family. About — about having taken the last family he had away from him." 

"*She* did that —" 

"But aren't I helping right now? I've asked you to keep my secret to no purpose but my own cowardice — nnh —" 

And Porthos is squeezing Athos's neck — too hard. "*Don't* call yourself a coward." 

"Porthos —" 

"Don't — *no* one who's lived through what you've lived through and come out the other side whole enough to call another man brother — to *make* another man your brother — could *ever* be a coward." 

Athos inhales sharply again. "Is your brotherhood supposed to be challenging?" 

"Isn't it? I ask personal questions and I touch you all the bloody time when literally no one else does anything *like* that —" 

"There's no *hardship* with you!" 

And that... was actually loud enough to carry a little. 

Athos winces and shudders — "I apologize —" 

"Don't even *think* about —" Porthos growls and pulls Athos in for another hug — 

"Porthos —" 

"I just need you to know how much I *admire* you, brother —" 

"You." 

"You've been through so bloody *much* —" 

"*You* have —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"*Porthos* —" 

"*Listen* to me, brother —" 

"I —" Athos huffs. 

And huffs again — 

And huffs several more times. 

"Brother...?" 

And Athos pulls back — not far. They're close enough to breathe in the wine on each other's breath, and Athos's smile is hot and wild in his eyes. "Perhaps, brother, we can agree to admire each other...?" 

Porthos blinks —

Blushes — 

"Athos —" 

"I should warn you — I won't take no for an answer." 

It shocks a snort out of Porthos. "*Athos*." 

Athos grins. "I love being able to make you laugh. It seems like... such a gift." 

And that makes Porthos feel meaner and smaller for laughing as much as he *does*, for laughing so *easily* when it's obviously so *valuable* to Athos — and it makes him feel like the best person in the world for having *given* his laughter to Athos so much. 

He'll do it as much as bloody *possible* — 

"I uh... I think we can admire each other, all right," Porthos says, and nods mock-judiciously.

Athos hums and pulls back. "Thank you kindly." 

"You're *welcome*. Now tell me more about *Fearless* and his legion of lovers."

"I... have a question for you." 

"Ask. Ask *anything*." 

"Do you desire Treville? The *Captain*." Athos shakes his head. "I must not let myself grow too casual." 

"Uhh..." 

"Mm?" 

"What?"

Athos raises an eyebrow. "Was that... a confusing question?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — no. He *thinks* about it — 

Thinks about how *many* questions he's been asking — 

And thinks about the fact that, for Athos, he was asking them about his *extremely* deviant and vigorously open-minded Uncle — as opposed to the semi-mysterious and stern and hard-but-fair-and-also-kind *Captain*. 

Porthos licks his lips. 

Athos raises that eyebrow higher. 

Right. "No, that was *not* a confusing question, brother." 

"Are you —" 

"I'm sure. It was a *surprising* question —" 

"You haven't... thought about it?" 

Porthos raises *his* eyebrows, but — he doesn't ask. 

He *doesn't* ask. 

He does *not* — "Have you?" Shit — 

"Yes." 

*Shit* — "Really?" 

Another wry smile. "After the first time 'Anne' and I made love — standing up against the wall in the *dining* room —" 

Porthos coughs — 

"— I spent a large amount of the night thinking about myself and sex, and wondering if it could ever be that wonderful, that shattering, that all-*encompassing* with another person." 

"And... you came up with the *Captain*? Your *godfather*?"

"I never came up with an answer, at all. I believe I was afraid to search too deeply. I believe..." Athos licks his lips and *obviously* searches his own thoughts. "What I remembered that night, despite my best efforts to the contrary, were all the times I had masturbated myself as an adolescent to thoughts of my Uncle —" 

"Uh." 

"Yes?"

"No, I'm not — I'm *not* judging you —" 

"Are you sure about that?" 

"Yes, I bloody am, because you're my brother and my best mate, and also the Captain is sodding *fit* —" 

"You *do* find him attractive?" 

"I do, yeah, and I have to say that you were just ahead of me a bit, because I don't just find him attractive, I find him *attractive*. I uh — yeah. I was probably not *long* away from tossing myself off to him —" 

"Oh, don't — don't placate —" And Athos draws *back* —

Porthos grips him by the wrist. "When do I *ever*?" 

Athos blinks — 

Studies him — 

And nods. "You never do." 

"Right, so, here's my *actual* question," Porthos says, and releases him. 

"I'm listening." 

"You said — you said you didn't feel desire for *anyone* like you felt it for 'Anne' —" 

"I didn't," Athos says, and smiles ruefully. "Desire, with her, came with *awareness*. I knew what I wanted, what I needed. My parents' — and my Uncles' — lengthy and detailed lessons about sexuality suddenly seemed sensible. Cogent. *Necessary* for more than just adding detail to my fantasies. I *wanted* her." 

"And... you *didn't* want the Captain?" 

"I truly don't know, brother. On the one hand, fantasies of him and what I knew full well of his sexual prowess and proclivities gave me a great deal of pleasure over the course of *years* —" 

"Right, right, and —" 

"On the other hand, I never once caught myself wishing he would... touch me." 

Porthos blinks. "No?"

"Not that way. Not... when I was an adolescent," Athos says, smiling wryly again and drinking off his wine. 

And that... "You want him now." 

Athos gives him an even *more* wry look. "I think... that it's entirely predictable of me to find myself desiring a man who sees himself as a parent to me, who I'm *lying* to about the death of his *other* child, and who is, of course, my commanding officer." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Well, you don't do things by halves, that's for damned sure, brother." 

"I think." 

"Mm?" 

Athos turns away. 

"What is it?" 

"An inappropriate thought; please leave it —" 

"Hey, no —" 

"I shouldn't — I will not force you to deal with my deviance," Athos says, only he makes it sound like he's been slapping Porthos in the face with his cock in *none* of the nice ways. 

"Right, but, you *haven't* been, for one, and also it's completely appropriate for best mates and brothers to talk about their fantasies and such." 

Athos turns back to him *slowly*. 

He *blinks* slowly. 

He *stares* — 

"I *mean* it." 

"You mean — everything you say." 

"That's *right* —" 

"I think other people negotiate their relationships... differently?" 

"Well... they're wrong." And Porthos waggles his eyebrows. 

Athos huffs and looks down — but only for a moment before he's looking up again with another of those *wild* expressions. "I'd like you to." 

"Mm?" 

"I want — your fantasies." 

Shit — "I'll tell you —" 

"About — about Treville, I mean." 

*Right*, just — put that cock *away*. 

Sort of. 

Ish? "I'll *definitely* tell you —" 

"Will you?" 

"When I *have* some," Porthos says, and laughs. "Will you tell me?" 

"Would you *like* that?" 

"*Athos* —" 

"You're incredulous, but — no. I'll take that at face value." 

"*Thank* you. I *absolutely* want your fantasies." 

"I..." Athos licks his lips *slowly*. 

"*Really*." 

"Come closer again," Athos says, leaning in. 

"Right you are," Porthos says, doing the same — 

"Were you aware that Treville is a witch?"

And there's a moment — a long one — when Porthos can only think about how *odd* this entire conversation has been, and wonder if this is the point where the joke is over. 

But. 

Athos is deadly serious again. And Porthos can just start breathing again right — now. "Uh. No?" 

Athos nods. "He's also a shifter. Do you know the term? You'd mentioned witches in your background —" 

"Yeah, I — fuck, yeah, I know the term, but —" Porthos leans closer still. "How is he *hiding* this? How *did* he hide this? Shifters have bloody *marks*." 

"He does, indeed, have a very large dog cock —" 

"Oh my fucking — *how* —" 

"He *didn't* hide it, brother. His brothers all knew everything —" 

"But the rest of the *regiment* — bloody *how* is he the *Captain*?" 

"He'll say he's the Captain because my father moved the spheres to make it happen. But, as for the rest..." Athos shrugs using just his facial muscles. "He healed the people who needed to be healed. He was one of the best men, in *the* best unit. He took care of everyone — especially the weak and small." 

"That's not always — a lot of people take that as a reason *to* stab someone in the back." 

"Mm. You're absolutely correct. Just the same, it was my father who recruited the first Musketeers, and who recruited the men who did the future recruiting." 

"And your father maybe planned for a day when the Captain would *be* the Captain?" 

"That's certainly how Treville — and let's call him that for *this* kind of conversation. Let's... let ourselves." 

"Shit — all right —" 

"That's how Treville will tell the story," Athos says, and smiles like a boy. 

Porthos doesn't tell him he's beautiful. 

He does *not*. 

He — "So um. What kind of fantasies are you having...?"

Athos huffs and covers his face. 

"Oh, *yeah*...?"

"Have you ever..." 

"Probably." 

Athos drops his hand and *looks* at him. 

Porthos grins and waggles his eyebrows again. 

"Porthos." 

"Look, mate, I haven't done everything in real *life*, but we're talking about *fantasies*. I can be a right imaginative —" 

"Have you ever dreamed of being thoroughly *punished*, Porthos." 

"Uh." 

"Have you ever dreamed of being taken in *hand* and *corrected* for your numerous *failings*." And Athos raises that eyebrow at him. 

Porthos licks his lips. 

"As I thought —" 

"Wait just a minute now, brother." 

"Yes...?" 

"I have *not* tossed myself off to being *corrected* — I always want to be myself at the end of the day, and correction seems more like wanting to be changed around a bit?" 

Athos wags his head — and then nods. 

"Right, no, *that's* not for me. But the punishment — absolutely is." 

Athos blinks. 

Porthos grins. "So tell me about it. *How* do you want Treville to punish and correct you?" He already *knows* *why*. "Does it change? Does it change *while* you're tossing it?" 

"I... would you tell me..." 

"Absolutely." 

And Athos *doesn't* give him a look, which means he's definitely distracted, but, well, that makes sense. 

Porthos waits him out and drinks a little more. Not *much* more — he wants to remember as much of this conversation as *possible* — but a little. 

"I want... I want to know about *your* fantasies of punishment, Porthos." 

"Oh. Well, yeah, 'course —" 

"You need not —" 

"We're both sharing here, and — it maybe seems a little strange to you that I'd *have* these fantasies?" 

Athos licks his lips — and nods. "You've done nothing. You've *been* nothing in need of correction." 

Porthos smiles wryly. "I lived when *nearly* everyone I loved died, brother." 

"Oh..." 

"Died hard. Died *badly*. Died sick and poor and in *pain*." 

"Porthos —" 

"Easy. I know what you want to say to that. Other smart people have said it to me, too. But uh. Sometimes the only thing that makes things *better*?" 

"Is — the fantasies." 

"Or doing something *about* the fantasies."

Athos grunts. "You — have?" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows — stops. This is Athos, of the *one* woman. One — horrible bloody liar of a *wife*. "Yeah, brother. There are a *lot* of brothels in Paris." 

"But..." 

"Mm?" 

"I would think... you've had lovers." 

Porthos blinks — and then nods. "I have, yeah, but uh... they haven't wanted that from me." 

"Have you wanted it from *them*?" 

Porthos grins ruefully. "There was a time when I would've taken *anything* from Flea and called myself the luckiest man on the *planet*, but... nah. Not for the most part." 

"No?" 

"I guess... I *have* wondered about this. Why I tend to wind up with people who want the uh... pushy bloke in me. Who *need* the pushy bloke in me." 

"Have you come up with conclusions?" And Athos's eyes are *avid*. *Focused*. 

"Not really, brother. Just — I've never really *had* someone pushy, someone *dominant*, of my own — who wasn't getting paid for it — who wasn't also at least a *bit* of an arse. In *bad* ways."

Athos *narrows* his eyes. 

Porthos laughs. "Yeah. That was right problematic when I was young and selling my arse — and has led to me being *damned* unforgiving with that sort of bloke *now*." 

"As you should be," Athos says, and nods firmly.

Porthos toasts Athos. "Thought you'd see it my way. But I was going to tell you about my *fantasies*."

"Are they... better than what you've done with prostitutes?" 

Porthos wags his head a little, but — there's no real question. "Yeah, they are," he says, and smiles ruefully. "There's a real physical *relief* to getting a good, hard hiding from a man — or a woman — who loves their job and likes *you* well enough, but it's not the same as it is in my fantasies." 

"What's. What's different?" And Athos licks his lips.

"Well, brother... in my best fantasies, the other person *knows* me, and *wants* me, and *cares* for me. They're doing what they're doing — whatever they're doing — because it makes them just that mad and wild inside *to* do it, to see and feel and taste and hear and *smell* me losing my *mind* for them." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah. There's... love." And Porthos is blushing now, but he's not going to stop. "So, if I'm having a good *enough* night that I can imagine being loved like that *and* imagine being *wanted* like that — wanted on my *knees* —" 

"Yes — please continue." 

"Absolutely. If I can imagine all *that*? Then it doesn't *take* much. The faceless person who loves me just that much — all they have to do is order me to bend over, or brace myself against the wall, or get down on my hands and knees, and suddenly I'm hard as stone and leaking like a *fountain* —" 

"That — that — I *understand* that," Athos says, and sounds stunned and wondering and *thrilled*. 

Porthos grins. "Yeah, eh? Your fantasies about the — about *Treville* are that intense?" 

"*Yes*. His — his *voice* is enough to..." And Athos licks his lips and blinks twice. "I must — are you sure you wish me to —" 

"I wish! I wish!" And Porthos laughs hard and kicks Athos's chair. "C'mon, tell me. And I'll tell *you* more." 

"Oh, yes, please — but I was going to say — my *Uncle* would hug me very often when I was growing up, and he didn't repress his more canine tendencies quite as much —" 

"*Really*." 

"Oh, no, hardly at all. His laughs were *all* barks — when they weren't *yips*. He would growl *whenever* something upset him. He would loll his *tongue*. He would *sniff* things. *Everything*." 

"Right, well, I've seen — and heard — him do some of that, but... uh? He got *away* with that?" 

Athos huffs. "*Habitually*. His eyes would gleam... but I was talking about his voice. He would creep up on me to hug me sometimes — he can *move* as silently as a dog when he wishes to — and when I would reflexively *fight* his tight, tight grip, he would growl in my *ear* —" 

"Oh my *God* —" 

"— and. I would stiffen. *Freeze*. Every *time*." 

"Well, you've got a giant bloody dog growling at you —" 

"Well, yes, but also — it was my *Uncle*, and I was *fighting* him. *Again*." 

"He was sneaking up on you!" 

"He was never truly angry with me. He'd let me *see* his smile even as he was growling and growling and..." Athos licks his lips again. "He'd tell me that we'd have to beat that reflex out of me. The reflex to *freeze*." And Athos raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos's jaw drops. "That's *one* of the things you want him to do." 

Athos huffs twice and drinks. "In truth, I beat it out of *myself* years ago, but — mm. If he could simply growl at me again while, perhaps, smacking my genitals —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"Mm?" 

"No, no, that is an *excellent* fantasy, and I'm appropriating it immediately." 

"*Porthos*." 

"I have *loved* getting my bollocks smacked, mate." 

"Oh." 

"*Yeah*." 

"And... your cock?" 

Porthos licks his lips — and smiles ruefully. "I saved that for Flea." 

"Oh — of course." 

"No, not —" Porthos shakes his head. "I just... wanted it to be special. For someone who loved me." 

"That makes clear, objective sense," Athos says, and tops them both off — 

They drink — 

"Right," Porthos says, "but here's what I want to know. On top of the six hundred million things I also want to know about you." 

Athos grins. "Yes?" 

"Are you ever, you know, *younger* in your fantasies about Treville? Is he your Uncle? The Captain? Just Treville? Something... else?" 

Athos's grin turns wry. "He makes me young by *existing* *proximate* to me, brother." 

"Yeah, but —" 

"But... I can't ever make myself... I can't go back, in my mind. I've tried, and it hurts too much. When it doesn't feel like an obscenity." 

Porthos winces. "Fuck, brother..." 

Athos holds up a hand. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me with that question." 

"I still *did* —" 

"By trying to know me. By making yourself... even more my brother." And Athos licks his lips again. 

And Porthos — can't. He takes Athos's hand and twines the fingers with his own. "I want to be your brother in every way *possible*, mate."

Athos *looks* at their hands for a long moment — 

Porthos starts to *sweat* — 

He *has* to be asking too much of Athos — 

He *has* to be — 

And then Athos looks up again and *squeezes* Porthos's hand. "I want the same. I... suspect you know a great deal more than I do about how to make that happen."

This is not when Porthos *kisses* — 

This is not when he floats an *offer* — or. 

"You just thought of something," Athos says, and smiles again. 

"I thought um. We might want to take this conversation somewhere more private, eh?" 

Athos blinks. "You've... never been to my rooms."

Well... "Technically, that's not true." 

Athos blinks *more* — 

And Porthos smiles ruefully. "You managed to give me directions back to your place about a month ago — you weren't *quite* paralytic, but I still had to half-carry you most of the way." 

Athos stares. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

"Did I... hm." 

"You didn't say or do anything weirder than usual, mate." 

"Other than allowing myself to become so inebriated that I — hm." 

"Yeah?" 

Athos looks pained. "It's possible that I drink too much." 

Porthos laughs *hard*. "I'll tell Treville you said that. He'll be so happy he'll *definitely* be in the mood to restrain you, growl at you, and do horribly mean things to your bollocks." 

Athos looks *glassy*-eyed. "The fantasies where he uses rope are so..." 

"*Rope*?" 

"No?" 

"Not... cloth? Leather?" 

"Rope is... rough." 

"Yes, it bloody is!" 

Athos smiles and ducks his *head*. 

Porthos snickers and claps his shoulder. "*Come* on, mate. We'll go to *my* rooms — they're closer." 

Athos looks *up* — 

Looks honestly *surprised* that Porthos would make the *offer* —

It's not the *time* to make all the other offers —

Fuck, he wants to know if Athos ever wants anyone *else* to discipline him, because if he does — 

If that's ever seemed like a good *idea* — 

"Porthos...?" 

Porthos takes a *breath*. "Sorry, brother, lost in thought." 

Athos raises that eyebrow. "Good thoughts...?" 

"*Extremely* good thoughts," Porthos says, before he can stop himself — 

And Athos is grinning at him — 

Porthos laughs helplessly and gets the money for another bottle out of his lean purse. "Give me a minute, eh? I don't have anything back at my place." 

"As you say," Athos says, and — watches him go. 

Porthos is *absolutely* going to let Athos do most of the drinking. He's good at it, for one, and, for another... 

*Porthos* needs to watch his mouth.


	3. In which Porthos doesn't watch his mouth.

Porthos's rooms are in a noisier, wilder neighbourhood than Athos's, but Porthos is still living like royalty compared *to* Athos, battered, mismatched furniture, smoky fireplace, and all. 

For one thing, the furniture is *there*. 

Athos has a bed — a pallet, really — and a chair, and not much else to his name; Porthos had damned well checked when he was tucking Athos in that once. He *doesn't* have a fireplace of his own, either, even though Porthos is reasonably sure that he can afford one. 

Athos lives like one of those really *frightening* monks, when you get right down to it, and seeing it... 

Well, it had made the way Treville never really came down *hard* on Athos for his drunkenness make more sense. 

It had to be better for a man to have a vice or two. *Something* to keep them from drying up completely and turning into something made up of just... purpose. Duty. Something. 

Something *cold*. 

For the past several minutes, Athos has been moving through Porthos's rooms like he's investigating the murder of royalty or something, examining every little thing he can without touching anything more than lightly. 

It's *adorable*, but it's also really — 

Really *warming*. Really — 

He can *see* Athos learning him, getting to know him, making up whole new bizarre questions to *ask* him to get to know him even *better*. 

And then... 

And then Athos stops by Porthos's Mum's favourite scarf. 

The oranges and yellows are faded now, and there are tears and holes in the fabric — *Porthos* can't wear the scarf anymore, but it still has pride of place in his bedroom, right on the bedside table, where he can reach out and touch it every night and think about Maman singing him to sleep in her low, rumbling voice. 

Porthos smiles. "It was my Mum's." 

"I... the pattern..." 

"Mm?" 

"I know a woman with scarves — and wrap-dresses — very similar to this. She lives on Treville's lands outside of Paris." 

"Uh. What? He has a Yoruba woman living on his lands?" 

"A witch. I believe she was his teacher. One of his teachers." 

Porthos blinks — a lot. 

"Your mother was Yoruba?" 

Right, no, focus. "Uh — no, actually. She didn't know what tribe she was born into. She spoke a *lot* of different African languages from being thrown in with other little girls and women from other tribes by the slavers. She taught me... as much as she could."

"Thank you," Athos says, and looks at him steadily. 

"Mm? What are you thanking me for?" 

"I can tell that this is..." He gestures to the scarf. "You keep it close to you. And your other scarves — were they hers, as well?" 

Porthos smiles wryly. "They really were. Her least-favourite ones, because they were so dark. They lasted longer." 

"I appreciate you telling me... everything you've told me about yourself. I appreciate... you've always been so open," Athos says, and moves back around the bed to stand in front of Porthos and look up into his eyes. "You've always *made* yourself a brother to me." 

"Athos —" 

"I know I don't make that —" Athos shakes his head once. "I need you to know how much I appreciate it. How much I appreciate *you*. I want. I want to know what I can give you which is as valuable as your brotherhood." 

Porthos's heart *knocks* — "*Athos* —" 

"Please." 

"Athos, you've been giving me *your* brotherhood —" 

"I. I have been trying —" 

"You've been *succeeding*. And this — just asking all your *questions* is bloody great." 

"It... is?" 

Porthos does *not* cup Athos's face and kiss him stupid. Instead, he cups Athos's shoulders and *squeezes*. "You're showing an interest. You're making me feel *important*. You're making it seem like — like the life I've lived before I came to the garrison —" 

"You are important. Everything about you. Everything about your *life*. You're — valuable." 

Fuck. 

*Fuck* —

Porthos steps *back* — 

"I said something wrong." 

"No —" 

"Porthos." 

Porthos winces — 

"Please tell me," Athos says, and, when Porthos looks at him again, his eyes are hungry. 

*Needy* — 

His eyes are *desperate* — 

"Athos..." 

"Please." 

"It's — I don't want to make you *uncomfortable*." 

Athos blinks rapidly — stops. "You honestly believe you will. For... some reason." 

"Yes —" 

"Because." Athos licks his lips. "No, I will *not* try to guess. Thomas proved countless times that I couldn't be trusted not to come up with the most painfully inappropriate — please tell me. I promise you, as your brother, that even if you do make me uncomfortable, I will only wish to *speak* to you about it." And Athos looks deep into Porthos's eyes — 

*Vows* with his eyes — 

And Porthos can't — 

He does *not* step close again. "I'm attracted to you. I've *been* attracted to you. I *want* you. Practically every word out of your mouth tonight has made me want to *kiss* you —" 

"Oh." 

"— but I'll *never* pressure you, or make a move on you, or anything *like* that. I wasn't going to *say* anything —" 

"Why — no. Because you didn't wish to make me uncomfortable," Athos says, and nods slowly. 

"Right, that, and I *promise* I didn't invite you back here for this. I just wanted more *talk*, where we could be *completely* ourselves —" 

"But that isn't all that you wanted." 

Porthos stops — 

*Stops* — 

"Athos, I —" 

"You want to kiss me. You want... to make love with me?" And Athos's eyes are wild again. *Full* — 

Porthos pants — "I — yeah." 

"How."

"Uhh." 

"Please tell me," Athos says, and flushes — 

Flushes right down into his *shirt* — 

Steps *close* — and never looks away from Porthos's *eyes*. 

*Porthos* can't keep himself from glancing down to Athos's *mouth* — 

"You find the scarring attractive." 

"It's hot as *fire* — uh —" 

"Your own mouth is beautiful." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Everything about you is — I've noticed. I'm not utterly blind, brother. Your curls grow wild and loose when you sweat enough. Your musculature is powerful. It *overawes*. Your eyes speak every truth —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"Please tell me how you wish to make *love* with me," Athos says, and it sounds a lot more like an *order* than a plea, and Porthos is a lot more than half-hard. 

Shit. Shit. "I used to think about — taking it easy with you. I used to think about being slow and gentle with you. *Easing* you into things. I knew you'd never been with a man before. I knew — I *thought* I knew — that you'd need time to *adjust*." 

"I — oh." 

"That's not what I want anymore." 

Athos *looks* at him. 

Porthos licks his lips. "Right now, I'm thinking very, very hard about reaching between your legs, grabbing you by the bollocks, and *squeezing*." 

"I —" 

"*While* I was doing that?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'd see how well you liked *my* voice in your ear, brother. My voice telling you all the things I could do to make you feel like you've expiated just a *few* sins." 

Athos makes a *guttural* sound — 

He looks *dazed* — 

He *smells* hungry — 

And Porthos can't help leaning in, can't — 

Athos focuses. "Porthos, wait —" 

"*Fuck* — I'm sorry —" 

"No, not — don't apologize. *Please* don't apologize —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"You. Please tell me. Do you *like* disciplining your — your *lovers*?" 

Porthos stares. 

"You're looking at me as though I'd begun speaking *Swedish*, but — think about our *conversation* tonight —" 

"Right, right, yeah, I hear you, I —" Porthos cups Athos's face and *bites* his mouth, upper and lower lip, then the whole *thing* — 

"*NNH* —" 

Porthos pulls back. "I love it. I *love* it. I don't get enough of it for *myself*, but that doesn't mean I don't *crave* it with other people. People who *hit* me that way." 

"And I... I make you wish to..." 

"You always did," Porthos says, pushing one hand back into Athos's hair and *gripping* — 

"Oh — yes —" 

— and *shoving* the other hand between Athos's legs and gripping his *bollocks* — 

"*Yes*!" 

"I was still *controlling* you in my gentle fantasies, brother." 

"Oh — you — yes?" 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and leans in close enough to growl into Athos's ear. 

"Oh. *Fuck*," Athos says, enunciating perfectly. 

Porthos growls a laugh. "I was just controlling you *nicely* in those other fantasies. But that's not what you need. Is it." 

"Please. I — *please*." 

"You need something *hard*." 

"Very — please *hurt* me!" And Athos is blinking and panting and gasping — 

Gulping air and looking *shocked* to have *said* that, which — 

Is fair. 

*Porthos* is panting and trying to be more than his *cock*, which is going *mad*. "You know that's beautiful, don't you, brother? You know that's bloody *incredible*." 

"What...? I —" 

"You begging for it. Begging for what you *need*, yeah, but also just... begging," Porthos says, and bites Athos's ear *hard* — 

"*Yes* —" 

"Oh, Athos..." Porthos *sucks* his earlobe — 

Bites *again* — 

"Please — *please* —" 

Squeezes Athos's bollocks *viciously* — 

Athos *shouts* — 

Porthos stops biting and pants. "That's bloody gorgeous. But... do you think we can get you out of some of these clothes? Mm? Or do you need them?" 

"No — no — I will —" And Athos smiles like a boy. "I never thought..." 

"What didn't you think?" 

"I never thought this could be... that I could *enjoy* this so much with —" And then Athos's eyes heat again and his hands begin to *shake*. "But of course it makes clear, objective sense," he says, and begins working on his belts. 

"Oh... brother. You are *such* a good boy," Porthos says, and works on Athos's tunic for him, nice and quick and efficient, like. 

He can't do a *thing* about the smile on his face — 

He feels wild, needy, *hot* — 

He *knows* he must be grinning like a *madman* — 

How often does a man get this bloody *lucky*? And yeah, he has to say that, has to make it *clear*.

He pushes the tunic back off Athos's shoulders — "Look at me, brother." 

Athos *snaps* to attention. 

Porthos grins *wider*. "This is bloody perfect. This is what I *want*. This is..." He shakes his head. "This is a *privilege*." 

Athos *shivers*. "I — brother..." 

"Mm? Tell me. Tell me *exactly* what you need." 

Athos *pants* — and lets his trousers drop. His breeches are bulging and *wet* with slick — it almost looks like he'd *spent* — and he's sweating for it. 

Porthos *yanks* Athos's head back by his grip on his his hair and *slurps* at the sweat on his throat — 

"*Oh* —" 

"You're *delicious*, brother..." 

"Please — *please* —" 

"Go on. You've a question to answer," Porthos says, and licks a long stripe across Athos's salty throat, just below his kerchief. 

"Let me — I want — please let me *please* you," he says, and it sounds like an *order* again — 

Sounds like he wants *Porthos* on his knees — but. 

He's still arched back thanks to Porthos's grip, and he's not fighting that even one *bit*. 

He's hard as *steel* under those breeches. 

He's *twitching* and *jerking* under those breeches. 

And Porthos thinks that maybe — just maybe — *all* of Athos's most desperate pleas are going to sound like orders. 

"*Please*." 

Yeah. This is going to murder several important parts of his mind — and Porthos doesn't care, at *all*. Porthos pulls Athos upright again, meets his glassy eyes —- "You're pleasing me right now, brother..." 

"*No*, I —" 

"Shh. I don't think I told you that you were allowed to talk back to me." And Porthos raises his eyebrows just a little in question. 

Athos looks stunned — 

Looks like he's been *slapped* — 

He licks his lips. "No. You haven't, brother. I apologize. But... there's something else I... need?" 

"That's all right, then. You can always tell me what you *need*."

Athos moans. "I need... I need to make you spend. *Please*." 

"Mm. You will." 

"Please let it be —" 

"You will when *I* say." 

Athos *grunts* — 

And Porthos gives Athos's tackle a *rough* squeeze through his breeches — 

"*HNH* — I — I'll spend!" 

"Really. Well, then, I guess you'd better get the rest of these clothes *off*, brother." 

"*Yes*, brother, I — yes —" And Athos looks to him, obviously for *permission* — 

Porthos heats up all *over* — and nods and steps back. 

Athos strips quickly after that, and Porthos *does* spend some time thinking about what he wants, what Athos needs, and what would be good for *both* of them — 

But mostly he's staring at that flushed body, that sweaty and hairy and *hard* body — 

Knowing it's all his, right now. 

And so, when Athos stands up, naked and perfect, Porthos cups the back of his neck and squeezes *tight* — 

"Oh —" 

Kisses him *hard* — 

"MM —" 

Kisses him *bruisingly* hard, because Athos had wanted to *hurt*, had wanted *Porthos* to hurt him, and — 

Fuck, he goes so loose — 

So easy and *loose* — until Porthos starts fucking his mouth with his *tongue*, at which point he tenses up tight and hard and bucks — 

And *bucks* — 

And *whines* — 

Shakes on his *feet* — 

Porthos pulls *back* — 

"*Please*!" 

Porthos licks his lips. "I think it's time for some *discipline*, brother." 

"Hnh —" 

And Porthos walks Athos to the closed armoire by the grip he has on his neck, then moves to Athos's side. "Hands up and flat against the armoire, knees shoulder-width apart... mm. No. Just a little wider than that. Yeah. Yeah, that's perfect. Let those big bollocks of yours *swing*." 

"I — I —" 

"Shh. How's this?" And Porthos cups the *front* of Athos's throat, instead. 

Athos moans low and *brokenly* — 

Drips on the *floor* — 

He's flushed *dark*. 

"*Answer*." 

"I *want* it!" 

"*Good* boy," Porthos says, and squeezes Athos's throat *immediately* — 

Athos's eyes go wide and *hot* — 

"That's right. You don't get to make a sound, or take a breath, or do *anything* but stand right here and take what I *give* you... until I say different." 

Athos tries to nod — 

"Oh, brother... no one told you to move," Porthos says, and squeezes *harder* — 

Athos's cock jerks *violently*, spattering the armoire — 

And Porthos starts spanking his arse *hard* with his other hand, alternating cheeks and using every last one of his calluses. 

Athos falls into the rhythm immediately. *Perfectly*. He shoves himself back into the smacks and stares at nothing, or — 

Something in his own mind? 

Some other fantasy? 

Treville? 

Porthos always *forgets* how quickly he regrets choking someone he has like this, but — 

He has to wait. 

He has to do this right for *Athos*, who's still jerking and dripping — 

Who — 

Fuck. He looks *this* close to spending — and he'd damned well said he was *before* this. 

So. 

Porthos leans in and *licks* Athos's ear — 

Athos jerks off rhythm — 

Tries to gasp — 

*Claws* at the armoire — 

"Oh, brother... you're close. I can all but feel it in my *own* cock..." 

Athos shudders and shudders — 

He can't seem to get the rhythm back — 

Porthos makes it even harder by speeding *up* — 

And Athos tries to *shout*, but *can't*. 

*Porthos's* cock jerks — "You've got me so *hard*, brother. You make me want... everything." 

Athos *focuses* — 

His eyes fill with *questions* — 

"Yeah, I see you. Well, *right* now, everything includes me pushing you down to your knees and fucking your pretty face." 

Athos goes *rigid* — but doesn't spend. 

"You liked that idea... mm. But you didn't spend for me..." 

Athos's eyes are wild again, wild and full and all but *rolling* — 

"What do you think I'll do to you if you *don't* spend before I have to let you breathe, eh...?" 

Athos's jaw drops — 

He hitches — 

He shudders all *over* — 

So Porthos smacks him harder, harder and *harder*, focusing on one cheek for several spanks at a time — 

Athos writhes on his *feet* — 

"Oh, pretty *pretty*... *spend*!" 

And Athos arches back and screams *silently* as his cock spurts and spurts — 

Porthos releases Athos's throat and smacks his *cock* — 

Athos gasps and *screams* — and makes an even bigger mess. 

"*Perfect*, brother —" 

"UNH —" And Athos spurts *again* — 

Porthos laughs and cups the back of Athos's neck again. "That's what I *like*." 

"Please! *Please*!" 

"Go on. Tell me what you need. Tell me what my beautiful brother *needs*." 

Athos makes a *strangled* sound — "Please — I — I don't want to be *greedy* —" 

"You need more," Porthos says with *relish*. 

"Please let me *pleasure* you!" 

Porthos growls and *yanks* Athos's hand to his own hard cock — 

Athos makes another strangled sound. "You like — you *enjoyed* —" 

"You're incredible when you're hurting for me, brother..." 

"*Fuck* —" 

Porthos laughs. "I know what you need. I know *exactly* what you need." 

"*Please* —" 

Porthos spins Athos around so that his *back* is to the armoire — "Stay *right* there," he says, and starts stripping himself down. 

Athos moans and stands at *attention* again, which is fine, because so is his cock.

It hasn't softened one *bit*, and the mark Porthos had left from smacking it is standing out loud and *red*. 

Which. 

Porthos licks his lips and strips down *faster*. 

"Brother. May I. May I ask a question?" 

"Please do, brother," Porthos says, and tosses his boots across the room — 

Makes quick work of his socks — 

Says an entirely blasphemous prayer of thanksgiving to every god everywhere that had put him into situations where getting dressed and undressed quickly was a skill he'd have to *have* — 

"I..." 

"Athos. *Ask*." 

Athos *grunts*. "Please tell me. Please tell me what *about* disciplining me is so *pleasurable* to you." 

And that. 

Porthos blinks. 

Porthos stares — no, wait. "Did you... uh. Did you think Treville wouldn't *like* doing it? In your fantasies, I mean." 

Athos smiles ruefully. "Your own fantasies of discipline are much... brighter. Than mine. In that respect." 

Porthos will not *let* himself look horrified — 

"You're horrified." 

"Brother —" 

"*You* believe that it is the more... correct and proper scenario for the person who provides the discipline to enjoy themselves as much as the person *receiving* the discipline." 

"Yes. Yeah. Yeah, I do. I *really* do. Athos, brother, do you need us to stop? Talk about this?"

"Oh — God, no. I need you to *hurt* me more," Athos says, and his smile is loose and warm and almost *easy*. 

"Fuck, brother —" 

"I need you to hurt me and enjoy it —" Athos licks his lips. "Is there something... perhaps you have a fantasy I could fulfill? As painfully as possible?" 

Porthos laughs hard. "Yeah. I *do*." 

"Then —" 

"Wait. Just a tick," Porthos says, and finishes stripping — just a little slower than before. 

He's giving himself time to think. He — 

Athos moans *hungrily* — 

Porthos isn't thinking very well. Just — 

*Fuck* — 

And then he's naked, and there's no more time to waste, and Athos is looking at him *hopefully* and hungrily. 

Just. 

Right, there's *one* right way to do this. "You want me to hurt you more." 

"I need it —" 

"You want *my* fantasy of hurting a lover." 

"I *need* it —" 

"On your knees," Porthos says, and he's *gripping* his own cock to try to teach *it* a little discipline, but that's not working even a little — 

Because Athos drops with that fencer's grace — 

Athos is *staring* at Porthos's cock — 

Athos is driving him *mad* — 

Porthos growls and grips Athos's hair again — 

"Yes —" 

Porthos *smacks* Athos's mouth with his cock — 

"*Fuck*." 

"Love it when you curse, brother. Which is going to make this a *little* frustrating..." 

"What — I —" 

Porthos smacks Athos again — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Good boy..." 

"Porthos. Porthos. Please *harder*." 

"Well, that's not really *possible* without doing myself a *deeply* unfortunate injury, but — here," he says, yanking Athos back and slapping his face with his *hand*. 

Athos groans long and low, dripping blood and slick — his lip is split —

His cock is *jerking* again — 

"Thank you," he says, and smiles *wildly*, heedless of his wounded lip —

"You're going to *kill* me with this, brother," Porthos says, and smacks his other cheek, just as hard —

"*Yes*," Athos slurs, and his lips are red — 

His scar is *livid* — 

His eyes are *mad* — 

And Porthos can't wait, can't — 

He pushes *in* with his cock, just — 

Just until it's *halfway* in, because Athos is *obviously* struggling with it, struggling not to cough, struggling to figure out how to *breathe* — 

Porthos lets his cock *rest* there, and — "Come on, now, brother, you can do it..." 

Athos *shivers* — 

"You *will* do it, so you might as well get used to it *quickly*..." 

Athos's jaw drops — 

"Mouth *shut* —" 

Athos *sucks*, slurping hard — 

Coughing and immediately sucking *again* — 

Trying to take *more* — 

"No, brother, you just stay right there until you *earn* more." 

Athos *bucks* — 

"That's right. You don't get your pain for *free* here..." 

Athos groans in his chest and stares a wild plea up into Porthos's eyes — 

Porthos's cock *jerks*. "Yeah, perfect. Now *suck*." 

Athos sucks *hard*, and he's still staring, still pleading, still *asking* — 

Porthos pants and pants and *forces* himself not to thrust — 

Fuck, this isn't going to be his *longest* performance — 

"You just... keep that up..." 

Athos *obviously* tries to suck harder — 

"Oh, *brother*..." Porthos growls. "Lick me. Lick me everywhere you can *reach*." 

It takes a minute for Athos to figure out how to do that *while* sucking — 

He keeps slipping and slurping and *drooling* — 

It's driving Porthos *mad* — 

"That's it, that's right, that's —" Porthos snarls. "Now, brother. *Now*," he says, and pushes deeper — 

"Mm!" 

"Just take it. Take *me*." 

Athos shudders and shudders and *yanks* his hands behind his back — 

"*Shit* —" And Porthos is fucking his way in, *in*, fucking that mouth, holding Athos by the hair and fucking his *mouth* — 

He's not going *slow* — 

He's not in his throat, but he's not — 

It's not *slow* — 

And Athos is moaning, nostrils flaring as he struggles to suck and lick while taking Porthos's *rhythm* — no. He's urging Porthos *faster*. 

*Harder*. 

Oh, fuck. 

*Fuck* — 

And Porthos hears himself snarling like an *animal*, sees himself gripping Athos's hair with *both* hands, but the only thing he can really feel is his cock *slamming* in — 

*In* — 

"Gulp me *down*, brother!" 

Athos tries — 

Tries again and a-bloody-gain — 

Porthos is *battering* him — 

Athos's cock is leaking all over the *floor* — 

Porthos can't — 

"*Do* it!

Athos *gulps*, just right, just perfect, and Porthos is in where it's tight, hot and *tight* — 

Porthos is groaning and fucking Athos *raw* — 

Doing him *dirty* — 

*Crushing* him to his groin and pounding in-in-in — 

Not letting him catch a *breath* — 

It's so good, it's so *good* —

And watching Athos's hands clutched tight behind his back — 

Watching Athos shudder and writhe on his *knees* — 

He's swallowing over and *over* again — 

He's still trying to suck, to suckle and lap and lick and — 

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, good *boy*," Porthos says, and crushes him *tighter* — 

*Ruts* — 

Ruts like an *animal* — "I want you, I need you — oh, Athos, brother — *brother*, you feel bloody *perfect*. I'm going to hurt you every *fucking* day —" 

Athos goes *rigid* again — 

Oh — "*Spend*, brother, do it, do it all over my legs, get me dirty, get me filthy, and then — " 

Athos arches and writhes and spurts — 

Coughs and *spurts* — 

It's hot and slick on Porthos's legs — 

So right — 

So *right* — 

Porthos can't let him *breathe* — 

He's fucking Athos *harder* — "I'll make it — make it so *good* for — for *both* —" 

And Athos starts *swallowing* again — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

Bucks — 

Athos spurts *again* — 

And that's all Porthos can take before he's groaning and bucking over and over again, *filling* Athos's throat — and his mouth, too. 

He — 

Oh, it's so tight — 

So hot — 

So wet and sleek and so — 

He's so *hot* — 

Everything is so hot and so right and so — 

He pulls out and spills his last *right* on Athos's gasping mouth — 

They're staring into each other's *eyes* — 

Athos looks so *happy* — 

Porthos's cock spasms *again* — but nothing else comes out. 

*He's* been spending just a bit more regularly than Athos, he'd wager. 

He grins and growls and hauls Athos up, kisses him hard, *hard* — 

"Yes — mm — *mm* — *yes* —" 

Porthos walks them to the bed and shoves Athos down onto his back. 

"Oh — yes?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "It's time for *us*... to cuddle right up and do some talking." 

"Hm." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Athos grins, despite what *must* be a *powerful* ache in his jaw. "It's only... I couldn't help but wonder if something else might please you *more*, brother..."


	4. Important information.

Porthos snickers and crawls onto the bed with Athos. "You have no bloody idea how much I've wanted to cuddle up with you, brother." 

"You've... fantasized that, as well?" 

Porthos moves up between Athos's helpfully spread thighs and covers him. 

"Oh — oh, this is *wonderful* — I can't *breathe* —" 

"I have *absolutely* fantasized this, brother. *Just* this," Porthos says, and takes a deep breath of his own — 

Athos *groans* out his air — 

"Even when I was thinking of being gentle with you, something told me that you'd *really* enjoy *this*." 

"You've — you've had it with other lovers?" 

"I have, yeah. Not *too* often, though. A lot of the lovers I've been closest to have been too much smaller than me to make it *really* work," Porthos says, and slips his arms under Athos's shoulders. "You're just right." 

Athos stares at him for a long moment, breathing shallowly by necessity — and then he grins again. "I pleased you." 

"Fuck, brother, you pleased me senseless. How do *you* feel?" 

"I. I'm not sure I have *words*." 

"No...?"

"I... I feel so much *lighter*. So much *cleaner*. So much..." Athos shakes his head. "I knew I *needed* this, but I didn't know what it would *feel* like." 

Porthos nods. "It's always big." 

"The first time?" 

"Every time you do it right," Porthos says, and — maybe tries to force that into Athos's head, a little. 

Athos shivers. "You believe — I was doing it incorrectly in my mind, with Treville."

"I do believe it, brother. It's... the pain is supposed to make it *better*." 

Athos opens his mouth — 

"For *all* parts of you."

Athos closes his mouth and nods thoughtfully.

"I uh... I have to ask." 

"Please, brother, ask me every question." 

Porthos smiles and kisses Athos again, nice and hard. 

He settles into it just the way he should, giving it right up. 

Porthos pulls back and licks his lips, and they're smiling into each other's eyes. 

"But — but *ask*, brother. *Please*." 

Right — right. "Uh — is Treville the kind of *man* who can punish another man *like* that and not love him? Not... need him?" And Porthos absolutely can't keep the worry out of his voice. 

Athos blinks and looks *thoughtful* again, which — 

Porthos isn't sure *what* to think — 

"He was, perhaps, the most loving man I had ever known." 

Fuck. "Was?" 

Athos smiles at him wryly. "Before I met you." 

Porthos blinks. 

"I'm still not certain if I'm doing that maths correctly. He is... passionate. We see very little of that on a day-to-day basis, of course, but when I was growing up, he was..." 

"He was always grabbing you — and Thomas? — up to hug you." 

"Yes. And he was just as affectionate with everyone else. I've wondered... I've wondered, more than once, how he lives without it." 

"Oh... damn. I mean, he's always clapping men on the shoulders and gripping their arms and —" 

"He's a dog, brother. He would *lick my temples* on a regular basis. A *very* regular basis." 

"Right, how are *you* doing without that?" 

Athos blinks. "I..." 

Porthos *looks* at him. 

"I suppose..." 

"*Yes*?" 

"I suppose I'm craving it desperately and making up increasingly problematic fantasies to fill its lack," Athos says, and huffs repeatedly. 

"That's what I *thought*. Now how about we get you some *good* fantasies?" 

Athos smiles up at him wryly. "May I have yours, instead?"

"My fantasies about an incredibly affectionate dog-man who's also a witch who's also my Captain? That could be challenging, brother." And Porthos grins. 

"Oh, I — I don't mean to —" 

"Shh, I'm playing. This is uh... I like the man you're telling me about. I like him more and more." 

"Yes?" 

"He... fits. I was thinking, before — a *lot* — about how Treville's smiles were... bigger. Deeper. Heavier. *More*. How they *meant* more and *felt* more, and —" 

"Oh — *yes*. It's *abundantly* clear that he cares for you." 

Porthos blushes hard. "Right, I — I don't know if I can go *that* far tonight —" 

"Porthos —" 

"— *but*. That's why I was asking all the questions. Because I could feel him being a *really* good bloke — not just a good man or a good Captain — and it seemed like..." He shakes his head. "I just needed to know." 

Athos stares *hard* into his eyes. "I'll tell you, brother. I'll tell you everything."


	5. In which Musketeers don't piss about.

Porthos wakes up alone, which is *always* disorienting and more than a little painful after a night of making love — not having sex. 

Not *just* having sex. 

But Athos didn't have any of his things at Porthos's place, and *Athos* has to be ready to ride out for a mission on a moment's notice. 

So, they'd stayed up too late talking and drinking wine straight from the bottle, and then Porthos had *not* helped Athos get dressed. 

He had kissed him goodbye, though. 

While rubbing his cleft through his trousers, just to give them both something nice to think about. 

Those are the kind of thoughts that make waking up alone a lot easier to *take*, and Porthos can damned well move his arse out of the bed and get washed up. 

At which point there's a knock on his door. 

Which. 

It's not even *dawn*, yet — not really. 

*No* one comes to see him this early. Even the landlord waits until later in the day — even when Porthos is late with the *rent*. 

But...

That knock was awfully *martial*...

Could it be Athos coming *back*? 

Maybe to ride in with Porthos this morning? 

That wouldn't be *unlike* him, and — 

And Porthos is grinning and dragging on last night's breeches so he can get the door *faster* — 

And that's how he comes to be grinning down at Treville. 

The *Captain*. 

The bloody — 

Porthos blushes like *fire* — "Uh — sir — I —" 

"At ease, son. I can tell you were expecting — hoping for? — someone else," Treville says, and gives him a *warm* smile. 

An *amused* smile. 

A really — 

A really good smile. Porthos is *staring* —

Treville raises his eyebrows.

And Porthos *realizes* that he's just standing in his doorway in stained breeches staring moon-eyed at his *Captain* — 

*Fuck* — 

Porthos licks his lips and backs *up*. "Um — uh — did you want to come in? Sir?" 

"I would, actually. There are things I need to say to you." 

Porthos blinks and blinks and wonders — 

He doesn't know *what* to wonder, really. 

He doesn't — no. The Captain wants in, the Captain gets in. Porthos steps all the way out of the way and gestures Treville in, closing the door behind him, and then — 

And then Treville is taking his hat off and walking in, scanning Porthos's rooms like he wants to know *everything* about how Porthos lives in as short a period of time as possible. 

Fuck, Porthos should straighten up — 

Last night's bottles are still out — 

The bed is a wreck — 

The whole place still *smells* like — 

Like —

And Porthos is *really* thinking about that because Treville is flaring his *nostrils*. 

And *looking* at Porthos. 

And *now* the smile on his face is *small* and *wicked* and *dirty* — 

Porthos *stares* — 

And Treville... barks a laugh, pushing his free hand back over his hair. "Sorry about that —" 

"No — *no*!" 

"Son, you shouldn't have to put up with my... questionable sense of humour —" 

"You sound like *Athos* —" 

"I." And Treville touches his tongue to his upper lip and eyes Porthos shrewdly and ruefully at once. 

"Sir?" 

"Athos came to see me last night, son." 

"Uh." 

"Athos came to see me to — and I quote — attempt to be as honest and true as the example his brother had set for him." 

Porthos... is staring again. 

Treville hums. "You've made quite an impression on my godson, Porthos." 

Porthos takes a *breath* — "Sir, I — I don't mean to — I don't want to intrude on your *family* —" 

"Don't you?" 

"*Sir* —" 

"Shh," Treville says, tossing his hat — perfectly — onto Porthos's bureau and moving close. He cups Porthos's shoulders — 

Squeezes *firmly* — 

"The first thing you need to know, with absolutely all of yourself, is that I couldn't be happier about how close you and Athos have become." 

Porthos licks his lips. "You... uh. Even though you *obviously* know about the fucking?" 

"Even so, son. And I also have a *fair* idea of how the two of you went about things —" 

"Oh fuck —" 

"— considering the bruises Athos was doing nothing to hide," Treville says, and raises a wry eyebrow. "Are you always that rough with your lovers?" 

"Fuck — *no*!" 

"Athos just brings it out of you...?" 

"I — I — we were *talking*. I — about our *fantasies* —" And Porthos shuts his *gob*, because — 

"Yes, son? These things often start with the simplest... hmm. I suppose I *should* tell you why I'm curious about *this*," Treville says, and smiles warmly again. *Fondly*. 

Openly and affectionately and — 

"Sir...?" 

"There's a lot I haven't told you, Porthos. *Son*." 

"Um. About?"

Treville's smile slips, and his eyes turn wide and hungry and *wounded* all at once. 

Porthos blinks — "Sir, what is it, what can I do —" 

"You look just like your mother," Treville says, in a low and *rough* voice. 

Porthos *jerks* back. "I — what? How — how do you —" 

Treville bares his *teeth*. "Athos said to me, tonight, that a man isn't a man unless he's honest with his family at all times. Unless he's as honest and *true* with his family as *you* have always been with him. And as *I* had always been with him when he was growing up." 

"But —" 

"I haven't been honest with you, son. I haven't *told* you everything about who you are — and who you are to *me* —" 

"What does that *mean* —" 

"You're my *son* — in every way that matters," Treville says, and then just *stops*. 

Porthos feels the blood drain from his face. Feels — "No." 

"Son —" 

"My Mum said my father was *worthless*, that he wasn't — that I shouldn't even ever try to *look* for him —" 

Treville *growls* — "I'm not your *blood*-father, son. I'm not —" He shakes his head once. "I killed *that* man after I found out that he'd hired an assassin to kill you and my Amina-love." 

Porthos stops. 

Breathes. 

Tries to *think* — 

Tries to just — oh. 

"She was the other woman." 

Treville frowns. "Son?" 

"Athos said — he said that you and your brothers and his mother were all lovers —" 

"We were —" 

"He said you weren't *secretive* about anything. Except one thing." 

Treville inhales sharply. "He knew... he could tell that there had been another of us in my pack." 

"Your — but. It was my Mum." 

Treville nods. "When my Amina-love and I were mated, it was the catalyst that truly put the pack *together*." 

"What? *Mated*?" 

Treville squeezes Porthos's shoulders again — 

His eyes are *wounded* again — 

He *shudders* — 

"*Tell* me!" 

"Your mother was a shifter, like me. *Just* like me — we were made *into* shifters in the same blood-ritual. Our *souls* were bound to dog-spirits — and to each other. This was done while you were in the womb —" 

"What the — look, I'm not a bloody witch, but I know that kind of magic doesn't *work*!" 

"It does when you have three *extremely* powerful and knowledgeable and *determined* witches to *make* it work, son."

"And you keep calling me —" Porthos growls and — can't. 

He steps back, away from Treville. 

Out of his hands. 

*Away* — 

Treville lets his hands drop. He's panting, and — flaring his nostrils again. He. 

Porthos frowns. "Are you sniffing me, sir?" 

"I am. I'm trying — I need to know everything about you." 

"Now? Not before?" 

"I 'inspect the men' close to where you and Athos are training very, very often, son — Porthos." 

"Not *that* — close. But you don't *have* to be close enough for *us* to see or hear you." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I really just have to be downwind. Especially on clear days." 

"You've been watching me." 

"Both of you, but, yes. I wasn't going to let you out of my sight once I had you back, son." 

"Why *didn't* you — what the sodding fuck kept you *away* — you know what I'm *asking*! I mean, my Mum said *something* about dark magic separating us from all her friends and family, and Yejide, the death-witch who mostly took care of us orphans in that part of the Court, said that my Mum had made a bad bargain with *another* death-mage, but nobody could actually answer my *questions*."

Treville pants again. "Your mother got sicker when she tried. Didn't she." 

Porthos blinks — "Yeah..." 

Treville nods — and strokes the hilt of his rapier. "Guillou — the death-mage who *forced* your mother to 'bargain' with him — is trapped in this blade." 

"Uh." 

"He'll scream in there, day in and day out, until the blade is dust." 

"Uhh. *Treville*." 

"Ask." 

"That kind of magic gets you in *trouble*! You're mucking up *balance*!" 

"You were trained well —" 

"Never *mind* that —" 

"Son. *Before* I — and the brother and lover and ally who taught me *how* — trapped Guillou? We tortured him to the point where *he* would agree to serve me in any way I saw fit." 

Porthos's jaw drops — no. "Bloody *hell*, sir, how did you even know —" 

"Jason Blood — the brother in question — used the pieces of your ragdoll I had left to me to scry the path your mother had taken when she had run for her life with the *rest* of the ragdoll in her possession. We *saw* what Guillou — and his shades — did to her —" 

"Shades — *shit* —" Porthos growls *low* — 

And Treville's ears twitch — 

And he narrows his eyes — 

And he lifts his *nose* — 

"What? What is it?" 

"It... didn't seem strange, when you walked into my office that day and broke the enchantment Guillou had laid — the enchantment that *hid* you from me, and hid your mother from me while she was alive, and kept her from telling *anyone* about her past or the people in it —" 

"*Fuck* — *fuck* —" 

"Ife and I knew — Ife is the last of your mother's guardians living, and she's on my lands —" 

"Athos *said* —" 

Treville inhales sharply — and looks unerringly at the scarf on the bedside table. "He recognized that scarf." 

"Yeah, he — tell me what you were sniffing for! Fuck, don't —" Porthos laughs a little hysterically. "Sir, this is... you have to tell me everything. You *have* to." 

"I will, son. I will," Treville says, wincing. "It's so hard to know where to begin. It's so hard to know..." He shakes his head again. "It didn't seem *strange* for you to be able to break the enchantment despite having so little magic of your own. It didn't seem strange for my child with Amina to *be* a weak mage —" 

"What — are you saying it seems strange *now*?" 

Treville licks his lips and does... something. 

Something — 

Porthos can *feel* — 

He doesn't know *what* he's feeling, but it's warm, and it's *inside* him, and it's making him feel safe and treasured and *loved* and — 

Shit. 

*Shit* — 

(Son...) 

"How long have you been able to just — just step into my *head*?" 

Treville blows out a breath and nods. "As soon as you broke the enchantment, I could feel how easy it would be to do. All I had to do was brush aside the last few barriers between us. Guillou never contaminated you *directly* — your mother was able to protect you from that —" 

"She — she wove protection spells around me all the bloody time. She *poured* her magic into me at the end —" 

"I can feel it. I can feel *her* —" Treville growls, flat and animal and so *hungry* — 

"Sir —" 

"And. I can feel you. And your *magic*." 

"What —" 

"Reach for me, son. Reach for everything you can *sense* about me —" 

"What are you *talking* —" 

"I know you know what I *mean*," Treville says, and he's all but *snarling*. "Guillou made it so that *only* you would be able to break the enchantment hiding you from all of us — and so that only *I* would be able to break the enchantment blocking you from your *magery*." 

"*Shit* —" But. "He did it to protect himself. He did it — he knew I'd be able to *sense* my mother's murder on him if I grew up a witch —" Porthos *snarls* — 

"*Yes*, son, now —" 

Porthos *reaches* — 

(Perfect. You can be a little gentler next time, but I'll never mind your *force*.) 

Fuck — I — sir — 

(Shh. Slow it down. Breathe and *think* about what you want to say to me.) 

WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO BLOODY TELL ME?!

(Or that.) Treville looks at the floor. (I won't try to excuse my behaviour. Athos is absolutely right about the kind of man who hides things from his family —) 

Athos is bloody *grieving* — and. So are you. *Shit*... 

(Don't *excuse* me, son —) 

Are you honestly hacked-off at *Athos*?

(Only for trying to shoulder everything he's going through *alone* —) 

*Well*? 

(I have far less reason —) 

"I'm about to pick up your hat and smack you with it, sir."

Treville opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

And grins like a boy. "No one's done that to me in much too long."

"I can bloody *see* that!" 

Treville *yips* a laugh — 

Just like Athos had *said*... 

It's a kind of *amazing* — 

"Best get used to it, son." 

"Uh. What?" 

"You're going to be doing it yourself, soon enough." 

"*What*?" 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Your parents were both shifters..." 

"Oh — *shit*." 

Treville inclines his head. 

"But *wait*." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos takes a step closer. "You're *not* my blood-father." 

Treville's eyes gleam a *hot* blue — 

He shows his *teeth* again — 

"Did you think that would matter to the magic in you, son...?" And his voice is low and *dangerous*. 

Porthos — blushes. "Right, I'm getting that it's really important to you that I never, *ever* say those words again in *that* way —" 

Treville blinks and flushes — 

Turns *away* — 

"I —" 

"Are you about to apologize?" 

"I. Have no right to be possessive of you," Treville says, to his *window*. 

Possessive — "Do you want to be?" 

Treville narrows his eyes, and says *nothing* — but Porthos can feel him. 

Porthos can feel every *moment* of the past twenty *years*, and how it was for *Treville*. 

How a part of him had just *burned* for Porthos's Mum — and Porthos himself — every minute of every fucking *day* — 

Burned and ached and — 

"Frozen," Treville says. "I — didn't actually mean to share that," he says, and he's taking it back. 

Pulling the *weight* of it *away* — 

"*Sir* —" 

"Every time you call me that..." Treville puts his face in his hands and takes a shuddering breath. 

Porthos frowns and takes another step closer. "What is it?"

"Don't make me answer that —" 

"Answer the bloody question!" 

Treville drops his hands and *snarls* at him again. "Every time you call me 'sir', I can feel how *much* I'm not your father and it's bloody *killing* me." 

Porthos rears *back*. 

"*Shit* — *shit* — son, I'm sorry, I can't — your scents —" 

"What *about* my scents?" 

"I haven't been *surrounded* by them since you were an *infant* and my Amina-love was right there — I couldn't control my mouth then, either. I'm sorry. I'm — we can table this conversation until I've got some control —" 

"Instead of having you honest?" 

"Don't —" 

"You don't want me to call you 'sir'. What *should* I call you?" 

"It's not the *word*. It's —" 

"What I feel. What I think. I..." Porthos licks his lips and nods. "I've never had a father, sir. You know that." 

"You've *always* had — no. No. I know. I know what you're saying —" 

"I've never had — I don't know what this *is*. But — I need you to know that I'm not pushing you *away*. All right? I'm not rejecting you. I'm not — nothing *like* that." 

"You... you're going to give me a chance?" And Treville looks at him with naked *hope*. 

Just — 

Porthos growls and pulls Treville close, into a *hug* — 

Treville *grunts* — 

Porthos's *belly* drops in *fear*, because this is the *Captain*, and you're not supposed to grab up your superior officers and *molest* them — 

Treville *coughs* a laugh — 

Right against Porthos's *cheek* — and then he *licks* Porthos there, heedless of the stubble. 

(*Enjoying* the stubble, son.) 

"Uh." 

"I *am* a dog." 

"Uh..." 

"And so are you." 

"Right, sir, but..." 

"Mm?" And Treville licks him again — 

And again — 

And *again* — 

"You're just going to keep doing that, aren't you." 

"Mm. Every chance you give me, son." 

Porthos thinks about dogs he's seen with puppies — 

Other animals he's seen with *their* young — 

"To be fair, son," Treville says, and licks him *again* — 

And hugs him *tighter* — 

And licks him — 

"I'm listening!" 

"Mm. Right you are. To be *fair*, all sorts of humans are *also* very affectionate with their young." 

"When the children *are* young —" 

"I'm —" Treville licks Porthos's *beard* — 

This is rapidly getting to be just a little stressful to the parts of himself which are *really* aware of what he was talking about with Athos *just last night* — 

"I'm making up for lost *time*, son, and mm? What were you talking about last night?" And *then* Treville pulls back. And *looks* at him. 

Porthos stares. Helplessly. 

Treville raises *both* eyebrows. 

Porthos tries *extremely* hard not to think about Treville growling in Athos's ear while smacking his bollocks — 

Treville barks like Porthos had stepped on his *tail* — 

"I'm sorry!" 

"I don't have a *tail* — right now —" 

"All right!" 

"What the bloody *hell* —" 

"I'm *sorry*, sir. Athos and I were talking about our *fantasies* — please pretend you don't *know* this the next time you talk to him —" 

"I." Treville looks like Porthos had smacked him. With the spend-spattered *armoire*. 

"I am *really* sorry —" 

"That..." 

"Sir, I —" 

"Wait," Treville says, quietly, and then drags a hand down over his face, mussing his beard and moustache a little. 

"Right, I — right." 

Treville licks his lips. 

Porthos tries to *breathe*. 

Treville licks his *teeth* — and grins. 

Porthos *blinks* — 

And Treville's eyes turn wicked and *hot* again — 

"Uhh..." 

"Son." 

"I'm worried about the next thing to come out of your mouth, sir." 

Treville *snickers* — 

"I'm really, *really* worried —" 

"You know me so *well* already —" 

"Oh fuck —" 

"But son." 

"Oh, just *say* it!" 

Treville flares his nostrils. "Just what, exactly, did you *exchange* with my godson for that fantasy?" 

"For fuck's *sake* —" 

"*Was* that how the two of you wound up here?" 

"I —" 

"Stop me," Treville says, and, abruptly, his voice is solemn and low. 

Porthos blinks. "What?" 

"Stop me — when I'm too much for you. I know how to be Athos's godfather — and I can't tell you how *good* it feels to have him *allow* that from me again — but you were right the first time, son. Neither of us know the first thing about how to be a father and son to each other." 

"I — oh," Porthos says, and just — thinks about that for a minute. 

(Yes, do that.) 

But... Porthos frowns. 

"Mm? What is it, son?" And Treville moves his hands up to Porthos's shoulders again. 

"Being Athos's godfather — you're honest with him all the time. You give him the real you. Everything *about* you." 

Treville inhales with a shudder. "Amina, Laurent, Marie-Angelique, and I talked about it when Olivier — Athos — was born. Not so long before *you* were due to be born." 

"I... 'it'?" 

"Honesty. The *importance* of honesty. How we were going to *raise* you both. We agreed, among the four of us — and later with Reynard and Kitos — that we would never tell you lies, no matter how pretty they were. We agreed that we would answer every question you had and teach you every truth we knew — including the truths about ourselves. That fell apart a little when we lost you and my Amina-love — we had no idea how to broach that horror with Olivier and Thomas, or how we'd *responded* to it — but, ultimately, not that much. Athos's godfather is... me. Just a little less likely to make a move on *every* likely boy with a blade in his hand." And Treville raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blinks *again* — 

Treville nods. "Athos didn't mention that." 

"I — boys or *men*?" 

Treville steps back. "I spent a *lot* of time in Paris's boys' brothels — and various *other* places a man can find a likely boy in need of coin — over the years, son." 

That — "Why the bloody hell are you the *Captain*?" 

Treville coughs. "That's your first question?" 

"I already know you're not an *arsehole*, sir. I — fuck. You can reassure me. You can tell me *how* young your boys were, how you chose them —" 

"Never so young that they couldn't enjoy themselves immensely — or choose me back. Never so young that they wouldn't mouth *off* to me as viciously as possible. Never so young that they didn't know exactly what they were doing. I... knew a lot about what I wanted from sex when *I* was an adolescent boy. I've never seen fit to treat a boy any worse than how I wanted to be treated then." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows helplessly. 

"I wanted to be taken in hand by someone bigger and harder and stronger and smarter — no. No." 

"No?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "I was about to tell you a half-truth. I wanted to be taken in hand by *my* father —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"— who, before you ask, never once treated me *that* way, or *touched* me that way, though fuck only knows I would've welcomed it from the first *moment* my cock hardened for more than pissing." 

"Right, well. I actually have no idea what to say to that. No, wait — does Athos know that?" 

"Yes." 

"All right, his deviance makes more sense — wait." Porthos frowns at Treville. 

"Mm? What is it, son?" 

"How much did my *Mum* know about all of this?" 

"Everything." 

Porthos blinks.

"Your mother was my sister, my love, my wife, my mate, the blood in my *veins* — and most of that was true *before* we were bound, even though we didn't *make* love until we were." 

"Oh — shit —" 

"I loved her like no one and nothing else in the world, son," Treville says, reaching up to — stroke Porthos's *ear*. 

And Porthos has to admit that that feels really fucking good, but — 

"Your ears are just like hers. And we both loved having our ears stroked and played with, after we were bound to dog-spirits. I... had a thought," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

"Got it. Uh. You can do that whenever you want —" 

"Can I?" And Treville's eyes are deep and wide and hard, all at once. Hungry. 

"Yeah, you can." 

"Because I'm honest, son?" 

"You're an *increasingly* *odd* bloke, sir, but you're a good one, by everything I've seen —" 

"I tended to parent my boys, you know." 

"Uh. You... Daddied them?" 

Treville licks his lips. "Not on purpose. Not at first. The first time a boy *called* me Daddy — I was eighteen — I gawped like a fool *while* nearly spending on myself. It hadn't occurred to me that that was what I was doing." 

"Got it, but why are you —" 

"It's braided together for me, son," Treville says, stroking Porthos's ear with his thumb one more time before letting his hand drop again. "Parenting and making love. Making love and parenting. It mostly wasn't like that with my pack — they were my *brothers* and *sisters* — but that didn't stop me from trying to edge things in that direction from time to time." 

And this... "Mum knew this — they *all* knew this about you." 

"Everything, son. *Everything*." 

"Athos's parents trusted you with him and Thomas." 

"Yes." 

"*Mum* trusted you — she *planned* to trust you with me." 

"Yes, but, with her... the trust had all the blinkers torn off, right from the beginning," Treville says, and he's looking at something in the past — 

_And then Porthos is looking at his *Mum*, naked and hugely pregnant and healthy and beautiful and *annoyed*. She's propped up in a *big* bed in what must be a *very* nice house — and she's staring *daggers* at Treville's back._

_*Treville* is naked and sitting on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands and his shoulders slumped and —_

_"Jean-*Armand*."_

_Treville *jerks* — "Oh, fuck, Amina-love, don't —"_

_"You do not listen to anything else!"_

_"I'm listening! I'm — it's just —"_

_"For *some* reason, you are *brooding* because your dearest brother and *other* sister *trust* you with their *child* —"_

_"*I* don't trust me with —"_

_"I will make Ife beat you!"_

_"*Amina* —"_

_"Come closer so *I* can beat you!"_

_"Amina, *listen*. We *both* know their child is going to be a boy, and he's going to be the boy-child of two of the most beautiful people in my *world*. Beautiful in every *way*. The only way I'm *not* going to be attracted to him is if they somehow manage to throw a *sport*."_

_"Which Ife has already said they will not —"_

_"Oh, fuck —"_

_"Ife has said the boy will be a prodigy, a brilliant leader of men —"_

_"Oh, *fuck* —"_

_"And you *will* be attracted to him."_

_"Yes, I — that's what I'm *saying*!" And Treville is *pleading* with Amina._

_Amina nods. "You will *want* him. You will desire him and ache for him and *love* him and toss yourself *off* to him — but you will not *ever* lay one *finger* on him, or even *try* to *seduce*, unless and until he *demands* it of you."_

_"Of course I won't!"_

_Amina looks at him._

_"I wouldn't — I'm not — it's not like I —"_

_Amina looks at him *harder*._

_"Amina-love, that's not the *point* —"_

_"Yes. It. *Is*."_

_Treville inhales sharply — and then nods to Amina's belly. "And what did Ife say about *our* child, mm?"_

_Amina smiles with a *wry* kind of softness. "That you will love him, my husband. That you will love him so much it sets you aflame —"_

_"No —"_

_"*Yes*," Amina says, and beckons Treville close. "This is how it will be, my husband: You will burn for our children, and you will be their father just the same. You will be the same *deviant* you have always *been* — and the same beautiful man, and the same perfect *dog*. You will be mine *forever*. Nothing will ever, ever tear you away from me."_

_"Fuck, Amina-love, I —" And Treville sobs and whines and rests his head on her big belly gently —_

_So gently —_

_She holds him._

The memory fades slowly and easily — 

If anything like that can be called *easy* — 

Just... 

"Do you need to sit for a minute, son...?" 

"I need..." Porthos licks his lips and *looks* at Treville, still that polite little distance away — 

"Tell me, please." 

"You were attracted to Athos when he was a boy." 

"And to Thomas, as well. Your mother... after that conversation, *she* had a talk with the rest of the pack about certain realities. They helped me keep my secrets when the attraction came."

And then, of course, there's the other question. 

The reason — probably — why Treville had wanted to *stop* Porthos from thinking too positively about him, even though the man *also* wants Porthos to think of him as.

Porthos shivers. "I haven't... I haven't done... well. With this." 

"Son?" 

"With older men wanting something like a son out of me. I —" 

"I don't want something *like* a son —" 

"I know — fuck, I said that wrong —" 

"Did you?" 

Porthos winces. "I don't know how to *do* this, sir. Not — not *any* of this. And not any of this *with* sex." 

"Then only do what feels right, son. Only that." 

Porthos frowns and searches Treville — 

Treville smiles ruefully — 

Openly and heavily and warmly and so — 

Porthos can *feel* him — 

Porthos can feel him *loving* him — 

"I can and *will* tamp myself down if you —" 

"Don't *do* it, sir —" 

"Son —" 

"I need — your honesty feels right. Even when it's *really* bloody confusing." 

Treville lifts his nose for a moment — and then nods. "You'll always have it. I want to hold you again." 

"Are you hard?" 

Treville meets his eyes dead-on. "A little more than I always am with you, son. But just a little."

"Do you toss yourself off to me?" 

"Yes." 

"What do I *call* you in your best fantasies?" 

Trevilles rolls his head on his neck and growls. "I'm harder now." 

"Should I apologize?" 

"Absolutely not. And you call me 'Papa' or 'Daddy'." 

"Not 'Dad'? 'Father'?" 

"'Father' would make me feel like we were *both* pinning our cocks back, son." 

Porthos *coughs* — 

"And I called my own father 'Dad'. I... don't actually have a single blessed clue why I don't want you to call me that." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows *helplessly* — 

And Treville barks a laugh. "I... hm. Tell you what, you can explain it to me in *great* detail the first time we get well and truly pissed together." 

Porthos nods judiciously. "We'll bring Athos. We'll need someone to walk us back home, later." 

"I want to adopt you," Treville says, exactly out of nowhere.

"Uh." 

"I want you. To move in with me," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

Porthos stares. 

And stares — 

And gives himself a *shake* — 

And that feels *really* good — 

*Disturbingly* good — 

"Don't be disturbed, son. You're a dog. You've always *been* a dog. You were just blocked." 

"Right, fine, I'll just be disturbed by the thought of you tucking me *in* at night." 

And then Treville raises *one* bloody eyebrow — 

And Porthos blushes. Just — "*Fine*, I'd *like* that, all right?" 

Treville grins like a — dog. His tongue is sticking out a little and everything. 

"Am I going to start... acting like... uh..." 

"A little. Don't worry too much, though — both your mother and I were doggy long before we were bound." 

Porthos takes a *breath* — and lets it out slowly. "All right. Thank you." 

"You're welcome. I... would still really like —" 

Porthos yanks Treville into his arms and just — 

Just — 

He pushes his face in against Treville's throat. Breathes him in. Breathes in his *scents*. Leather and steel and *power* and just a little bit of sweat. 

Not enough — 

Treville laughs ruefully. Humanly. "That won't last if you keep that up." 

Porthos blinks. "It's... too much?" 

Treville *clutches* him. "I will *weep* if you step back again." 

"And have Ife beat me?" 

"Well, no, she'll probably still just beat me — she's fond of that —" 

Porthos snickers — 

And Treville sighs and strokes over and through Porthos's hair. "Thank you for this. I promise I'll only lick you —" 

"When you want to?" 

"When I want to, yes, and — all right, that's all the time, but I'll only be a deviant about it *sometimes* —" 

Porthos laughs *harder* — 

"Oh, son, oh, son, do you remember your mother's laughter being as big as the whole world?" 

"Fuck, sir, *yes*!" 

"Yours is just the same. Just..." Treville sighs again and squeezes him almost *bruisingly* tight. "I'll make you happy, son. I'll make you happy because I need it the way Louis needs a backbone." 

Porthos *chokes* on a laugh — 

And Treville turns *his* smile against Porthos's cheek. And licks him.


	6. Never alone.

Athos has spent the morning making up for every last *second* they didn't spend training last night, which is something Porthos can absolutely get behind, but it hasn't left them much breath for talking beyond the bare necessities. 

Still, it's time for lunch *now*, and they've got their usual cold, dark, unpopular table to themselves in the mess — 

"You were later than usual this morning," Athos says, and the question is in his eyes. 

Porthos takes a few quick bites — there wasn't *time* for breakfast this morning — swallows hugely, and *then* focuses on Athos properly. 

The bruises don't show up as well as they do outside — 

His swollen mouth had *thoroughly* distracted Porthos — 

All right, Porthos is back to thinking about what that *arse* looks like right now — he licks his lips — 

And Athos grins wildly. "Porthos," he says, just that, and it's pleasure and a scold and a seduction and a statement of *intent*. All at *once*. 

"Right, brother, don't do that when you want me to concentrate —" 

Athos huffs — "I'm abruptly no longer certain what I want you to concentrate *on*." 

"*Good* — but. *Treville* came to see me this morning — because *you* inspired him to be *honest*." 

Athos blushes — and blinks. And frowns. "About...?" 

Porthos gestures Athos to lean in — 

Athos does it — 

"You know that other woman you were pretty sure was part of the pack?" 

"Oh — yes?" 

"She was my *Mum*." 

Athos *stares*. 

"Yeah, brother," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "She was Treville's *mate*. I'm still not entirely sure what to *do* with this." 

"But — what — he's your *father*?" 

"Not by blood — they were bound together after Mum was already pregnant with me. But. They were bound *while Mum was pregnant with me*. All Treville had to do was *concentrate* a little, and he could reach right into my *mind* and make me *feel* him. And — I could do the same with him." 

"Are *you* a witch now?" 

"Apparently?" Porthos laughs a little hysterically. "He kind of packed a *lot* of information into a *very small period of time*." 

"I." 

"Yeah, exactly. But he told me — there's a way I can share all this with you *easily* and *quickly* and *efficiently*." 

"Oh — yes?" 

"Mm." And Porthos eats a bit more — 

More — 

Swallows — "Your parents and them were all bound *to* Treville and my Mum. They'd shared *blood* with them —" 

"Oh — *oh*. Mother spoke about this with us — yes, I remember the method she described!" 

"Yeah, eh?" 

"Please eat *faster*." 

"Right you are, brother," Porthos says, and *focuses* on his stew. He doesn't eat fast enough to make himself sick — he'd learned that lesson as a *young* boy — but he eats pretty damned fast. 

So does Athos — 

And then they're taking their bowls and spoons up — 

And getting back out into the day. "East barracks?" And Porthos keeps his voice quiet. 

Athos nods and leads them in that direction at a *fast* walk. 

"So uh." 

"Mm?" 

"He told me..." Porthos blushes. 

"Yes?" 

"He told me that you said that you decided to be honest with him *because* of me." 

"Yes," Athos says, simple and calm and easy. 

Porthos blushes *harder* — "You know I'm not —" 

"You're tempted, in this moment, to say something self-deprecating. To say something that would, in your mind, make me think less of you." 

"Um." 

"Yes?" 

"Athos —" 

Athos *looks* at him, and doesn't stop walking. 

"Right, fine, yes, you're right —" 

"Brother. You and Treville are two of the most honest, open, intelligent, giving, wise, open-minded, thoughtful, and altogether admirable men I have ever known." 

"I —" 

"The fact that neither of you embody absolutely all of these qualities *perfectly* absolutely all of time does not change the fundamental reality." 

Porthos — stops. He keeps *walking*, but — 

"Even my father took great pleasure in the suffering of those he loathed, brother, and lied to them in every way he could — when it wasn't the truth that would cause more pain." 

And... every story Athos has told about his father has been of a man of *impeccable* honour, but... this is a lot more realistic. 

Understandable. 

*Approachable*. Porthos nods slowly. 

"I've made sense to you." 

Porthos claps Athos on the shoulder. "You always do, brother." 

Athos smiles. "Good. You've spent too much time... worrying about my opinion of you, I believe." 

"Uh... I'm getting that," Porthos says, laughing and moving into the deserted old plague-barracks. 

"The thought came to me when I realized *I* had spent too much time worrying about *your* opinion of me," Athos says, closing the door behind them and moving close — 

Closer — 

"Please kiss me. *Please*." 

Porthos growls *helplessly* — 

Cups Athos's bruised face right where it will hurt the *most* — 

"Fuck. *Yes*, brother!" 

"Yes is just right, just perfect, just —" Porthos growls louder, heavier — 

"You sound so *animal* now —" 

"Treville says there's a reason for that," Porthos says, laughing into Athos's mouth and making the kiss light and wet and messy and *shallow* at first — 

Athos groans and *shudders* — 

Yanks his hands behind his back — 

And Porthos can't tease. He kisses Athos hard, deep, *rough* — 

He fucks Athos's mouth *slow* and hard — 

Athos sucks his tongue and groans — 

And groans *more* — 

And *shakes* — 

And it's too much not to lick him, not to *bite* him and lick him, bite him all over his *face* — 

Athos makes a *guttural* sound and *bucks* against him — 

Porthos moves one hand down to his tackle and squeezes *brutally* — 

Athos *whines* — 

Porthos snarls and squeezes *harder* — 

"Fuck! *Yes*!" 

Porthos bites Athos's cheek right through his *beard* — 

"Oh, Porthos — *Porthos* —" 

And Athos smells so good, so hot, so hungry, so musky and sweaty and *needy* — 

He feels so *good*, shaking and *ready* in his *hands* — 

Porthos is biting him again, clawing at him through his training clothes — 

No, no, he has to — 

He shoves and pushes Athos back to the nearest bunk — 

Knocks him right down *onto* it — 

Athos gasps and *grins* up at him — 

Works on his *trousers* — 

Porthos snarls and knocks his hands away, opens him, *opens* him — 

"Oh, yes, yes, *please*." 

The scents are even better, wilder, *richer* — 

Porthos gets those breeches open and out of the *way* — 

And Athos's cock is hard, slick, *dark* with blood and so ready for him, so *ready* — 

Porthos swallows him *down* — 

Athos *shouts* — 

*Bucks* — 

Porthos groans in his *chest* — and grips Athos by the *hips* — 

"*Please*!" 

— and scrapes his teeth all the way *up* — 

Athos makes a *desperate* noise, something *between* a scream and a groan — 

Athos jitters and *tries* to buck — 

Porthos holds him still and *sucks* — 

Sucks *hard* — 

"Yes, brother, *yes*!" 

*Works* his head, down and up and down again, slurping up all the slick and — 

"Please, please, *hurt* me again!" 

And Porthos can't bloody *think* — 

He can barely *see* — 

He's moving one hand off Athos's hip and shoving it up under his shirt — 

He's sucking as hard as he can and *grinding* his chin against Athos's bollocks — 

"*Hnh* —" 

He's pinching those nipples *hard* — 

"Yes! *Yes* —" 

Swallowing and swallowing around that thick cock and wanting, *needing* — 

Porthos is so hard — 

So *hard* — 

Leaking all over his own breeches and — 

Fuck, Athos isn't trying to touch, isn't trying to guide, isn't — 

Athos has his arms folded awkwardly *under* him — 

Porthos *snarls* around his cock — 

Athos *gasps* — 

Porthos scrapes his teeth up and up and *up* — 

Athos *screams* again, bangs his head against the bunk, bucks right into Porthos's mouth so roughly, so *wildly* — 

He *needs* it — 

He *needs* to be hurt, and Porthos can't stop himself from moving his other hand off Athos's hip, from moving enough that he can grip those bollocks *while* he's sucking, slurping, going back *down* — 

Athos *sobs* — 

Tosses his *head* — 

Sobs *again* — 

Porthos's cock *throbs*, and he *pumps* Athos's bollocks as he scrapes his way *up* — 

Athos tenses up tight and hard — 

Porthos squeezes his bollocks *viciously* — 

Athos *whimpers* — and spurts all over Porthos's mouth. Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

Porthos sucks it all down, takes it all *down*, every *drop* — 

Porthos mouths and massages that cock with his lips — 

Nibbles — 

Athos bucks and spurts *more* — 

Oh, *brother*... 

Porthos keeps that *right* up until Athos starts to writhe again, until he starts sounding tortured in *problematic* ways — and then he suckles and soothes his way *off*. 

And breathes. 

And kneels *up* so he can get a *good* look at the messy sprawl of Musketeer on this bunk, all twisted-up and sweaty and reeking of *sex*. 

Porthos *growls* — 

And Athos's grin is *thrilled*. "Your eyes..." 

"What about them, mm?" And Porthos works on his own trousers. 

"They gleamed a perfectly beautiful green..." 

"Uhh... shit?" 

"Oh. Hm. I suppose you may wish to have a better idea of when you're about to do that." 

Porthos splutters. "A *bit*, yeah. But I can't — I can't think about that, yet," he says, and takes himself out. 

"I... would very much like to hurt more. Immediately." 

Porthos laughs and gives himself a slow stroke. Well, slow-*ish*. "I'm going to be *heartbroken* when you're not as pent-up anymore." 

"I suppose we could deny me —" 

"*No*."

"Hmm. Yes, Porthos," Athos says, and grins wickedly. "I still need... so very much discipline." 

"Yeah. You do. Can your *face* handle it?"

Athos opens his mouth — 

"*Think* about it." 

Athos huffs. "Oh — I don't want to." 

"That's an answer, then. But don't worry, brother. We've other options *available* to us," Porthos says, stripping off his training shirt. "Up. Let's get rid of yours, too." 

"This... mm. This feels so decadent," Athos says, and obeys. 

And that's the sort of statement which needs to be responded to with approximately twenty years' worth of sexual *spoiling*, but Porthos is absolutely up for that, so that's fine. "I'll show you *exactly* what decadent means, brother," Porthos says, and *shoves* Athos back down — 

"*Yes* —" 

And then Porthos pushes his trousers and breeches further down — *enough* further down — and covers Athos — 

"Oh — yes? Again?" 

"Not quite," Porthos says, and *thrusts* — 

"*Fuck*!" 

"*Really*." 

"I — I — you feel — and I'm —" 

"You *like* it." 

"Please *more*." 

Porthos growls and *grinds* Athos down against the bunk — 

"Unh —" 

"Yeah. You're all *sensitized* for me..." 

"Yes — yes, I — *please*." 

Porthos grinds and grinds and — *pants* because Athos is damned well getting *really* hard again. "Brother..." 

And Athos *tries* to focus on him — *obviously* tries — but he's panting and groaning and blinking and sweating — 

Shuddering and struggling to spread his *legs* wider — 

He — 

"Oh, brother, did you want to open wide for me...?" 

"UNH —" 

"Did you want to... make room for my *cock*?" 

"Please! I want — I want you to *fuck* me!" 

Porthos thrusts again — 

"Nnh —" 

Again — 

"*Please* —" 

"Was that hesitation, brother? Are you not *sure* you want me to fuck you?" 

Athos makes an *anguished* noise — 

Arches up beneath Porthos as much as he *can* — 

Porthos pins him *harder* — 

Athos's cock spasms and *leaks* — 

"Oh, *yeah*," Porthos says, and thrusts hard, *hard* — 

"Please! Please, I've — I've only ever — there was a *toy* —" 

"Did you *like* it." 

"It was too *cold* —" 

"You know I'm *hot*, don't you brother?" 

"I feel! I *feel*!" 

"You know I'll fill you up and *heat* you up from the inside *out*," Porthos says, and grinds again — 

Athos bites his swollen lip — 

Porthos *snarls* and bites his cheek again — 

Athos cries out — 

*Porthos* bites Athos's lips — 

Bites them hard enough to open the *wound* — 

And then he can suck, taste — 

Taste that delicious metal-sweet-rich *blood* — 

Suck it down, take it, pin Athos *brutally* and — 

Feel him. 

*Feel* — 

(Oh — *oh* — *brother*!) 

Athos, *yes*! And Porthos pulls back and grins down at Athos, who's grinning *up* at him with his red, red mouth. He — 

(Porthos...) 

Oh, fuck, you're so bloody beautiful, Porthos says, and he's already kissing Athos, already kissing his *shocked* moan even as he fucks him right into the bunk, shoves him down, forces all the air out of his body, fucks his hard *cock* — 

(Please please don't STOP —) 

*Never*. And Porthos is kissing him harder, *meaner*, fucking up against that spasming cock and spasming *himself* — 

He's so hot — 

He's so *needy* — 

Athos makes him so *needy* — 

Athos groans and bucks and *clutches* Porthos's shoulders, clutches him almost *convulsively* — 

Porthos fucks him *harder* — 

*Punishes* that pretty cock — 

Athos sucks his *tongue* — 

Nods and nods and *trembles* — 

Bucks and — 

(Your touch is *blinding*!) 

Fuck, *Athos* — 

(I can't — I can't — please let me *spend* again!) 

Porthos *slams* against Athos *helplessly* — 

Athos opens his mouth against Porthos's in a *croaked* scream, bucks and goes *rigid* — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

Do it! *Spend*!

And Athos digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise — 

They're slamming against each *other* — 

It's so hot — 

So slick and hot and hard and — 

Athos gasps and shouts and *spurts* — 

Good *boy*! 

(I love you! I *love* —) But the rest of that is broken screams and wild colours as Athos spurts all over *both* of them — 

As Porthos ruts *wildly* into the mess and tries to — 

No, he can't think, he can't see, he can't — 

All he can do is feel his brother, his beautiful and perfect *brother* — 

Athos's cock is still spasming — 

He's *sobbing* again —

He's sobbing even though he's smiling, even though his body is loose and slack and ready, so ready, and a part of Porthos is only sinking in, sinking deep, sinking all the way *in* — 

And Athos is right there to make the fantasy more real, to — 

To tie himself to Porthos's *bed*, with *rope* — 

Spread-eagle on his belly and *taking* it — 

His back and arse and thighs are striped with *welts* —

And Porthos is gripping him by the back of the neck and one shoulder and slamming in, in, *in* — 

Ragged and rough, raw and *dirty* — 

Mean and *perfect* — 

Porthos can't stop making his own movements match his fantasy self's — 

Can't stop *reaching* for the fantasy — 

Making the fantasy bite Athos's throat the way *he* is — 

(*Yes*!) 

Bite hard enough to make Athos *wheeze* — 

Buck and clutch and — 

Go *loose* — 

(I'm *yours*!) 

And there's blood in Porthos's mouth again, there's — 

He's snarling and sucking and lapping and *spurting*, on *fire* and aching and spurting all *over* Athos — 

He can't stop *rutting* — 

(*Don't* stop!) 

He sucks Athos's throat *hard* — 

Fucks him right into the *bunk* — 

Holds him down and bloody *has* him — 

He needs — 

He *needs*, and this is so *right* — 

(*Yes*, brother!) 

He's still *spurting* and it's so *right* — 

He's sodding *covering* Athos with spend and — 

Marking him. 

*Marking* — 

Porthos hears himself yip in *shock* — 

He spills *more* — but then his arms lose about eighty percent of their strength, and he's less pinning Athos than collapsing on him. 

Porthos pants. 

Stares. 

Athos... pets him. 

*Strokes* him, yeah, and it's loving and normal and all that, but — 

But he's also definitely petting Porthos, and rubbing behind Porthos's *ears*, and — 

"Should I stop?" 

"... no." 

"Mm." 

"I..." 

"You're having difficulty adjusting." 

Porthos makes a sound like he just spent his brains out and now someone he loves very much is trying to make him have an intelligent conversation. 

Athos... pauses. All over. 

"Mm?" 

"You love me?" 

Porthos *blinks* — and pushes up enough so that he can meet Athos's gaze. "Yes. *Yeah*. *Yes*. A *lot*." 

Athos licks his frankly brutalized lips. "I'm never alone with you," he says, and his voice is low and wondering and so *happy*. 

Porthos grins. "That's what brotherhood's about." 

"Yes. I agree. Please lie back down." 

Porthos laughs. "We're going to have to wash up and get back to training —" 

"Mm. Yes. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy your work ethic?" 

"Yeah, actually," Porthos says, and lies right back down — 

"Oh — yes?" 

"Mm. Real early on. We'd barely been training together for a week." 

"*Oh* — of course — and you feel perfect —" 

Porthos grinds and grinds and takes a *deep* breath — 

"*Fuck*." 

"Also — also, brother, you did *not* sound like you wanted to *fuck* my work ethic back then." 

"I — I can be very dim and slow — please crush the breath out of me —" 

"That's not going to get us back to *training*, brother." 

"... damn." 

Porthos laughs hard — not incidentally crushing the breath out of Athos — 

Athos *groans* — 

Smiles *gorgeously* — 

He looks *drunk* on his happiness — and Porthos can understand that perfectly. 

(Good.) 

"Yeah, it is," Porthos says, and settles right in. 

And keeps breathing deeply. 

Athos *smells* happy. 

It's so bloody *incredible* to *have* these senses for that reason alone. 

The latrines are a bit tortuous now, but he'll *deal* with that for Athos's happiness — 

Athos's *thoughtful* happiness — 

Athos's... hunh. 

"You're thinking pretty hard down there, brother." 

(Hm.) 

"Mm?" 

(Were you aware that a part of your mind is going over and over what Treville told you this morning in some depth?) 

Porthos blinks — "I... am?"

(Considering *what* he told you, it makes perfect sense.)

"Right, but —"

(I think... that I might need a little air.) 

"Shit —" Porthos pushes up and hauls them both into an upright position. "Are you all right?" 

"Are *you*?" 

Porthos licks his lips and raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?" 

Athos's expression is — incredulous. 

And Porthos can get his mind out of his trousers, because — "Your Uncle and godfather admitted to tossing himself off to you and your little brother when you were an adolescent." 

"Your *father* admitted that he *would've* been masturbating to *you* when you were an adolescent had you been *available*." 

"Right. It's all fun and games until they want you back, eh?" 

Athos *blinks* — 

*Flushes* —

"Am I a hypocrite?" 

Porthos *blinks* — "*Fuck*, no, brother. Take that at face *value*. It *is* big and strange and kind of fucked when someone in a position of power over you wants to have sex with you. *Trust* me." 

Athos inhales sharply — "You would know." 

"Yeah, brother —" 

"*How* are you calm about this? I can *feel* that you are. I can — it's *making* me more calm than I believe I wish to *be*." 

"I — well, I don't know if this is going to help —" 

"Please *tell* me." 

"Right — it was the memory he shared." 

"Your mother." 

"Yeah. I — she taught me *everything* about *everything* from the time I could *learn*. Some people think she taught me things I was too *young* to learn, but *she* knew that she was running out of time from the beginning." 

"Oh..." 

"Yeah. And — I'm just... I'm *used* to her knowing what's what. I'm used to her being... well, not necessarily the voice of *reason*, but..." Porthos frowns and tries to find the words for what he's feeling — 

For what he *knows* — 

His *Mum* — 

"Your mother..." Athos licks his lips. "If *she* wasn't concerned about something, then it was nothing to be concerned about." 

"*That*. That, right there, because, see, it's not like she *didn't* get concerned about things, and *really* serious about keeping me *safe*, especially —" 

"But she felt that you would be safe with Treville." 

"Right. And — brother, so did *your* parents with *you*." 

Athos nods slowly. "And I was. I *always* was. And so was Thomas, even though..." 

"Mm?" 

Athos frowns. 

"What is it, brother?" 

And, abruptly, Porthos's mind is filled with a beautiful young man with long, loose, dark-blond curls; deep blue eyes; a soft mouth; intelligent, wicked eyes; and *most* of Athos's jawline. 

Thomas. 

Thomas beaming — 

Thomas throwing himself into Athos's arms — 

Thomas throwing himself into *Treville's* arms while Treville grins and laughs — 

Thomas performing — 

Thomas playing the harpsichord — 

Thomas *performing* at *court* — 

He's obviously brilliant, and he's more bloody gorgeous by the second, but — 

"That's... that's my concern," Athos says, and licks his lips. 

"What is, brother?" And Porthos cups the back of his neck just a little gently. 

"I found myself confused by how Treville had managed to *resist* Thomas —" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

"— and that confusion raised certain questions about my own attitudes toward brotherhood." 

"Uh." Porthos tries to. 

To...

He *tries* — 

Thomas is sleeping in a big bed in their minds, a soft smile on his beautiful face that just gets wider when Athos strokes a lock of his hair back from his face. 

Porthos gives up. "So um." 

Athos huffs. 

Porthos hugs Athos tight — 

Athos huffs *repeatedly* — 

"You've got excellent taste, brother." 

"Oh, thank you," Athos says, and huffs several more times. 

"We can talk about how Treville has *almost* talked me into calling him Daddy, instead." 

"That's not — oh." 

"Yeah." 

"You'd be calling him that while... hm. His cock is actually bigger than that." 

"It *is*? Wait, no, I've seen him naked —" 

"He was glamoured." 

"He — oh. He has that *dog* cock —" 

"Yes." 

"Oh, fuck." Porthos pulls back and tries to figure out if he's more or less convinced. 

"Going from what I can tell about your thoughts —" 

"Oh — fuck —" 

"Should I not finish that sentence?" 

Porthos puts his face in his hands and laughs hard. 

He can feel Athos's amusement — and happiness. And *warmth*. 

And he knows what it's about. He sits up straight and grins at Athos. "We're never alone, eh?" 

"Never," Athos says, and his eyes are full and wild. 

Gorgeous. 

Porthos leans in for another kiss.


	7. In which Porthos doesn't piss about, either.

They're being obvious.

*Technically* they're still training — and Athos could find ways to teach Porthos how to be a better soldier if he were fully erect, dripping, and also drunk off his *arse* — 

But they're also shooting a *lot* of glances up at Treville's office door. 

It's a good thing that it's late enough that most of the men are gone. 

This — 

They're being damned obvious. 

(Hm.) 

Porthos gets his guard up again. Yeah, brother? 

Athos attacks — perfectly, of course. 

Porthos works on defending himself as best as he can — 

Works on keeping his guard up, his speed up, his *grace* up — 

"Good, faster," Athos says, and picks up speed just like they *haven't* been working all day — 

Porthos damned well does the same, but — What are you thinking? 

(What do you suggest we do about our... obviousness?) 

Athos has taught him to watch other men's eyes for what they'll do next — and, in truth, Porthos already knew that from other sorts of fight — 

(Yes, you did.) 

But *Athos's* eyes barely tell Porthos anything, at all, about the moves he plans to make. He's been doing this for exactly too long — it's too close to instinct for him. 

(We'll make it instinct for you. But you were saying?) 

Porthos throws caution to the wind and attacks —

"*Good*, faster —" 

Porthos does his *best* to follow that order while still not giving Athos, who's moving fast and easily and smoothly, more than his side — 

While still keeping up his *guard* — 

No, damnit, make him work for it. And — "We should let him seduce us." 

Athos coughs and blinks —

And Porthos manages to graze his belly right and proper. 

"Good tactics." 

"Yeah, eh? I meant it, though." 

"That's why it worked." 

"Right. Are you all right?" And Porthos rests his practice sword on his shoulder. 

"I'm..." 

"Mm?" 

"When I've thought about it — how to *begin* with him, I mean..." 

"Yeah?" 

Athos smiles ruefully. "I've mostly thought about walking into his office and dropping to my knees." 

"Oh. Damn." 

"No?" 

"No, no, that's a *good* tactic." 

"You truly think so?" 

"Brother, this is me asking *fervently* for you to do that as little as possible with me, because I need to have at least a little bit of control with you." 

"You truly don't." 

"Athos —" 

"Porthos." 

"*Athos*. I'm getting *stronger*." 

Athos blinks. "Than you already *are*?" 

Porthos glances around — 

"We're alone, and the only one who *could* be within earshot is Treville. What is it?" 

Porthos moves his practice sword to both hands — and opens the hand he'd had around the partially-crushed hilt.

"I... you're going to say that it isn't wood-rot." 

"I am, brother. I've been trying to figure out how to get a new one without being *obvious*." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I've also been trying not to think about it, yeah." 

"Brother." 

"Yeah, I know, I can't do *that*, but — you've been helping." 

"I... have?" 

"Practically *everything* you're teaching me is about control and how to use it *properly*, brother. Hones the focus, doesn't it?" 

Athos nods slowly and thoughtfully. 

"Anyway, I will *definitely* bring it up with Treville —" 

"After we make love with him?" 

Porthos makes a show of wagging his head back and forth. 

Athos hums. "No...?" 

"How stupid does *he* get when he's had one off, eh? It might be best to brace him *beforehand*." 

Athos huffs — and obviously looks at a memory. "Several memories, actually." 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm thinking about how *narrow* my Uncle's focus could become when his pack had aroused him sufficiently." 

Porthos snorts. "That's *any* man, brother —" 

"True enough, but... it was always perfectly wonderful when Thomas would pick *just* those moments to *interrogate* Treville about his opinions on various plays, essays, compositions... oh, all sorts of things." 

Porthos chokes. "That's *diabolical*." 

"Thomas's sense of humour was somewhat evil, at times —" 

"Fuck, I *love* him!" 

"I. Good. *Good*," Athos says, low and *vehement*. 

He needs Porthos to love his little brother — needs it, not just wants it. 

And when Porthos thinks of his Mum... 

Well, he can understand it just fine. 

"I — I... yes?" 

"Yeah, brother," Porthos says, and tries to make Athos *feel* it — 

(I do. I do.) 

"Good," Porthos says, and snaps the ruined practice sword like a twig, brushing away the smaller pieces to keep them from becoming splinters —

"Hm." 

"Let's go muck up military discipline." 

"As you say." 

And they're not even halfway up the stairs before — 

Before *Treville* is *laughing* in their minds. 

Soft, low, ribald — heartfelt — 

(Oh, sons...) 

And Porthos *remembers* that Treville absolutely could've been paying attention to everything they were talking about all *day*, no matter *where* he was. 

(I wasn't, though. Until you decided to come to *see* me,) Treville says, and he's still laughing — 

Still happy and amused and warm and *welcoming* — 

(I want you here. Both of you. I miss you all the *time*.) 

Athos inhales sharply ahead of Porthos on the steps — 

Freezes for just a moment — 

(Son...?) 

(I — Uncle... I'm still not... I've missed you. I've missed being able to...) 

(Accept me?) 

Athos exhales relievedly and starts walking again. (Yes, that.) 

Porthos starts walking, too, and — 

They're hurrying down the walk — 

(We mustn't forget to knock,) Athos says, and he's talking to *himself* for the most part — 

He knocks — 

(Let me just pull the Captain back on, boys,) Treville says, and there's a *slight* pause — "Get in here!" 

Porthos grins —

They walk in and shut the door behind them — and Treville is standing behind his desk with a *bright* smile just — all over him. 

"That was great, sir," Porthos says, and runs a hand back through his hair. "I couldn't tell what you were really thinking, at all." 

Treville — rumbles. 

Like a great bloody dog. 

(There's a reason for that, son,) he says, and winks — and turns to Athos. "I spent a lot of time *training* with Athos's mother when I was younger, boys." 

Athos blinks. "I — yes?" 

"Mm." And Treville walks round the desk and half-sits, half-leans on the front of it. "Don't get me wrong; my father taught me a great deal about how to move through the halls of power, despite not having grown up with it." 

"That was always my assumption, sir." 

Treville smiles again. "I needed someone who actually enjoyed it, son. I needed someone who saw the *good* in it — as opposed to just the necessity." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully — 

And Athos smiles with wry nostalgia. "Mother always tried to show me that. So did Thomas." 

Treville nods. "I remember. Marie-Angelique wanted you to have as many weapons as possible. Thomas wanted to *share* as many things with you as possible." 

And Athos is thinking of pushing Thomas's hair back behind his ear again — 

Thinking of Thomas's bright, wild smiles — 

Thinking of Thomas's... mouth...

Porthos coughs — 

Athos flushes hard — 

Treville hums.

"I — I apologize —" 

"Not at all, son. It's not like I haven't had that thought before," Treville says, and smiles warmly *and* sharply. 

Porthos *blinks* — 

"About — you fantasized about me making love with *Thomas*?" 

Treville laughs. "I'm not an altruist, son. I fantasized about *me* making love with both of you." 

And Athos is... gone. 

Just obviously lost in thoughts of — 

Well, there the thoughts are. One image after another of Treville with Athos and Thomas — 

And the *adolescent* Athos and Thomas — 

And seeing Athos without that beard is — 

Wait, no, Porthos doesn't need this fixation any more than he already has it — except that Athos is thinking about Treville smiling *filthily* at the adolescent Athos and Thomas and urging them *both* to suck his huge doggy cock at the same time. 

Porthos checks on Treville — he looks like he could let Athos do this all night. 

"I truly could, son." 

"*Sir* —" 

Treville laughs hard — 

Athos blinks and the parade of filth goes away — 

Porthos *breathes* — 

"I — I —" 

"Athos," Treville says, and pulls on a *sober* face — 

"Sir, I —" 

"I'm *very* proud of you, son." 

Athos stares at him. 

Treville laughs like an *arsehole* — 

Porthos gives up, retrieves Treville's hat from the rack in the corner of the room, and smacks him with it. 

Treville laughs *harder* — 

"You should probably hit him again," Athos says. 

"I —" 

And then *Treville* is sharing a fantasy — 

They're right here, in his office, and Porthos is kissing a naked Athos hard — 

Kissing and licking and biting him all over his face — 

And *stopping* when Treville tells him to. 

And not touching Athos anywhere else — 

Not *doing* *anything* else — 

Even though Athos is *begging* for it — 

And then Treville orders him to slap Athos's *cock* — 

And he does that, too. He — 

The fantasy fades, slow and easy and gentle, like. 

Porthos is *blushing* — 

Athos is licking his *lips* — 

And Treville is raising his eyebrows and folding his hands in his lap. "Now. Why don't you boys tell me *how* I'm to seduce you." 

"Uhh..." 

Athos *looks* at him. 

"Shit — right, I — right. Talking. You *talk* to us." 

"I could do that," Treville says, and inclines his head a little. 

"But you won't?" 

Treville grins like a boy. "No, I will, son. I *absolutely* will," he says, and stands. "But I think the three of us ought to get out of *here*." 

Porthos blinks — 

"You... we're going to your rooms in the city, sir?"

Treville swings his cloak on with just a bit of a flourish.

He usually never does that — 

"There are usually too many of the wrong people watching, son," Treville says, and sets his hat on his head and — 

"Wait —" 

"What are we waiting for? Mm?" 

"Sir, Athos and I haven't even cleaned ourselves *up*." 

Athos blinks — "Oh — I —" 

"Don't even think about it," Treville says. "You both smell incredible." 

"Sir..." 

Treville growls, low and frustrated. "Athos has to get his leathers on before he leaves the garrison." 

"Yes, sir." 

"He could probably get them pretty rank for you?" Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Treville grins like an extremely happy dog. 

"Sir, I have to go to the *palaces* in those —" 

"We haven't tried teaching Louis how to be a man via his sense of smell, yet, son —" 

Porthos coughs again — 

"Get those leathers on." 

Which is why the horses they're riding — Treville had rented a gorgeous black named Bravoure for Porthos from the hostler right outside the garrison, since garrison horses are only available to recruits for training — smell better than they do — 

"Bite your tongue, son." 

"You're sure you wouldn't want to do that for me, sir?" 

"Absolutely not. Hold still," Treville says, and makes as if to ride his lean, beautiful, and extremely calm Lisle closer — 

Porthos snorts — "*Easy*, sir. I'm still learning over here." 

"You're doing beautifully," Athos says, from Treville's other side. "You were born to be on horseback." 

"That's *right*," Treville says. "And Athos, you've been doing perfectly at *teaching* Porthos." 

"I..." 

"There's not a damned thing I would change about your program, son. You saw what an excellent student he was, and you set about taking *absolute* advantage of that, right from the beginning." 

Athos blushes — 

"You're going to be one hell of a lieutenant someday, son." 

Athos blushes *harder* — "Sir..." 

Treville barks a laugh. "Should I stop that kind of talk for the time being, son?" 

Athos *looks* at Treville. 

Treville yips — quietly. 

It still makes Lisle's ears twitch, and... 

Porthos nods to her. "She's not used to you. The real you." 

"Absolutely *not*," Treville says. "She's used to the *Captain*." 

Athos narrows his eyes... "You can't... relax yourself enough to have a horse who is accustomed to the true man you are —" 

"Because then you might do something bloody untoward when you're riding with the King?" 

Treville sighs with pride and frustration at once. "That's just right, sons. I pin my cock back *every* day before breakfast." 

And that... "How do you bloody *stand* it? You're — you're *lying* all the time." 

Treville *looks* at him... and smiles warmly. *Lovingly*. 

Porthos ducks his head a little — and then distracts himself from the *force* of all that love by checking their perimeter. 

He knows Athos has been doing the same thing. 

Treville hums, amused and pleased. "My boys." 

"Absolutely, sir, but answer the *question* —" 

"Right you are," Treville says. "It's... I wasn't always a very honest man. Not in *every* way." 

Porthos can *feel* Athos goggling a little for that — 

"No, sir?" 

"No. I knew, perfectly well, that my desires for my own father were deviant. *Unacceptable* to the vast majority of the world. I knew that from the beginning, and so I... curled around them. I built a Treville who could walk and talk and move through the world in *front* of the deviant buggerer, and I gradually gave the deviant me who was buried deep all sorts of other things that I didn't want the people I loved the most to know about me." 

"Oh — fuck. Sir —" 

"Mm. I know, Porthos. I know *exactly* what you want to say, because your mother said it to me more than once." 

Porthos blinks — and nods. 

Athos frowns. "But..." 

"Yes, son?" 

"Your brothers, your sisters — your pack *knew* about your deviance, about *all* of your deviance —" 

"But there were other secrets by then, son. Fears 'Fearless' didn't dare admit to. Pettiness. Pain. That sort of thing." 

Porthos shocks himself with a growl —

"My sentiments precisely, brother, but —" 

"Right — right," Porthos says, and pets and cossets Bravoure — 

His body keeps trying to *rumble* instead of letting him make *other* soothing sounds — 

"Use words, son. Even if they're utterly inane." 

"I — yeah, all right," Porthos says, and takes a breath, and keeps *petting*, and — "There's a boy, Bravoure. You're fine. *I'm* fine," he says, in a low voice. "I'm not going to make that noise again if I can help it..." 

And Bravoure settles right down. 

Porthos grins — 

"Perfect, son. Now here's a trick you can use with *any* animal you're working with — so long as the witnesses are *exceedingly* trustworthy," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos *blinks* — 

And Treville smiles slowly. (Reach for Bravoure.) 

But — 

(You don't know his personality, you don't know his history, you barely know anything at all. There's nothing *for* you to reach for. Right?) 

Yeah!

(Wrong. You have his scents. You have practically *all* of his scents. That's all you need.) 

Ohh... uh. I'll just uh... think about that, Porthos says, licking his lips and *focusing* on those scents — 

(Not Lisle's. Not Actaeon's.) 

Right, right — just Bravoure's, Porthos says, and surreptitiously leans in a little closer to Bravoure's neck — 

Flares his nostrils — 

And feels a *connection*, a — 

It's not like the one he feels with Treville, or the one he feels with Athos, but — 

(There you are, son. Now... talk to him.) 

Just... talk? 

(He'll understand you. He's *waiting* for you to talk to him.) 

Porthos blinks — 

Bravoure *whickers* — 

And Porthos gets it. He's — tugging on Bravoure's lead-rope, a little. 

(That's just right, son. Now...) 

Porthos strokes Bravoure. "I'm never going to hurt you, mate. I'm just going to ride you around a bit when I'm with the Captain here, and... um... I think you're a bloody gorgeous horse." 

And Bravoure lifts his great, dark head and steps a little lively!

Porthos laughs and pats him firmly, turning to Athos, who's grinning at him. 

"That's perfectly marvelous, brother." 

"*Yeah* —" 

"Hm. I don't suppose you can use that method to apologize to Actaeon for me for... everything?" 

Actaeon snorts and continues walking stolidly on. 

Porthos thinks of the number of times Athos has all but *thrown* himself drunkenly onto Actaeon's back — 

Thinks about maybe getting Actaeon's *hopes* up for better treatment in the future...

Frowns... 

Treville snorts. "All right, now I regret teaching you that." 

Porthos coughs — 

"*Sir* —" 

"Oh, son. There had to be someone in this generation who drank as much as we did." 

"This is my *point* —" 

"As much as *all* of us did put *together* —" 

*Athos* coughs — 

"You do realize I've followed you out some nights, don't you, son?" 

Athos licks his lips — 

Blushes — 

"The thought... had not occurred." 

Treville snorts again. "The dog followed you home more than once, son. And had no idea what to do with the fact that you had no awareness of *his* presence, but easily sussed out every footpad coming after the drunk with the expensive leathers and weapons." 

Athos opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

And smiles ruefully. "The dog... has never felt like a threat. As opposed to family." 

Treville inhales sharply. "Son..." 

Athos ducks his head — and then immediately turns to check their perimeter. (I apologize for every moment I didn't trust that you would still... care for me.) 

Treville growls low, making Lisle shiver and twitch. He *immediately* begins comforting and cossetting her, but — (Neither one of you will *ever* doubt how I feel about you again.) 

*Porthos* shivers — he'd felt every bit of that. 

Every bit of Treville's *need* for them to *know* him — 

And know him as — their father. 

Treville smiles softly. "Take it slow, son. I'm to *seduce* you." 

"I —" 

"And that's what I *intend* to do." 

"Right, but —" 

"I've never *had* the chance to seduce two grown men into being my children —" 

"This is what I'm —" 

"— but I'd say that I've had a fair amount of practice with similar things." 

Athos huffs — 

And huffs several more times — 

And huffs so violently it's *almost* a laugh — 

And Treville grins like an *arsehole*. "Almost there, boys. Look smart."


	8. For the dog who has everything.

Treville doesn't make them have a formal dinner in his dining room, which is something Porthos is *profoundly* grateful for. 

He leads them upstairs to his sitting room, and the maids bring up trays with a *lot* of meat, and a few other things, too. 

The maids *also* bring big smiles, flashing ankles, flashing *cleavage* — 

Offers to be of assistance in any way he and Athos *need* — 

Treville is laughing his *arse* off — 

The maids stick their tongues out at *him* and run off giggling after filling their glasses with *plenty* of wine. 

Porthos *looks* at Treville. 

Treville winks at him. "My father said, more than once, that if he had to be stuck with a manor house, then he was damned well going to run it like a tavern, and to hell with *anyone* who didn't like it." 

Porthos opens his mouth — no. 

"Mm?" 

"I was about to ask how my Mum liked the maids making all kinds of *offers*, but she probably laughed *her* arse off." 

"That she did, son. She knew the only other *woman* for me was Marie-Angelique. And, for that matter, she knew she could yank my lead anytime she wanted, for any reason," Treville says, and lifts his glass. "To family. To *pack*." 

They clink glasses — 

And Athos leans back with a thoughtful frown on his face. 

"Yes, son?" 

"I... I did *notice* the lack of other women in your life..." 

"But...?" 

"I suppose I always assumed I was missing information, like with Porthos's mother." 

Treville smiles wryly, and gestures them both to eat. 

"You've got to eat, too, sir —" 

"I will, Porthos. But I worked a lot less hard than you both did, today. My appetite has dropped since the days when I was still a *real* soldier every day. It worries Cook to no end." 

Porthos blinks. "Cook...? Like... at the garrison?" 

"I stole him *from* the garrison, son. The Cook we all have now at the garrison is the man who applied to work for me here and tried to serve me *dainties* all the bloody time." 

Porthos stares. 

*Athos* stares — 

Porthos — "You broke him." 

"Nonsense. I put some steel in his backbone —"

"You —" 

"And it's not like I don't let him serve us all pheasant and... and *vegetables*." 

Porthos licks his lips. 

Athos sips his wine. "We do get to eat many vegetables, brother." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos *frowns* — 

"Son —" 

"No, no, I — just. You have to let him use herbs sometime. You *have* to." 

*Treville* frowns. 

"Sir —" 

"Porthos." 

Athos is looking back and forth between them with great interest — 

"*Sir*. Do you have any *idea* what it *does* to a good cook not to be able to use herbs when they need to?" 

"I — how do *you* know —" 

"Mum couldn't get herbs when she needed to, a lot of the time," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows *high*. 

Treville *blanches* — "I'll buy him herbs. Spices and — *fuck*." 

"*Thank* you." 

Treville growls. "I *hate* torturing people who don't deserve it." 

Athos pats his shoulder. "My other Uncles always said that torture was your stock in trade, sir —" 

"I —" 

"These things do come out of us when we're not paying attention," he says, and starts to eat. 

Treville snorts. "*Thank* you, son. Now both of you *eat*. *Please*." 

They do just that, and Treville watches them do it with a warm and almost *covetous* smile on his face. 

He's wanted them right here, eating his food and drinking his wine. 

"Living with me, son. *Living* with me." 

Athos blinks rapidly and pauses mid-chew —

"Yes, both of you, son. Keep eating. I've a question to answer." 

Athos nods and obeys. 

Porthos has never actually *stopped* eating — 

And Treville sighs. "Such good boys. Both of you," he says, and pushes a hand back over his hair. "But we were talking about me and women." 

He and Athos nod again — 

"The simple answer is that they weren't *for* me — until my Amina-love and I were bound to dog-spirits and each other. Dogs are a lot less discriminating than men — even men who've always been more than a little doggy. The *real* answer is that I could always get it *up* for women, but the passion, the fire, the drive, the sense of *rightness*... were missing. 

"I still went with the female whores who followed the regular Army regiment I was attached to when I was a recruit — but it was all about my attempt to hide the buggerer in me. When Honoré — which is what Athos's Uncle Kitos was called before he took that name as a Musketeer — took me aside and quite literally smacked some sense into me, I *stopped* doing that. That's... well, Honoré — and Laurent — were my first brothers, and my *second* loves. I hid a lot of things from them early on in our brotherhood, but, at the same time, they were constantly inspiring me to be stronger, better, smarter, *braver*. 

"They made me more honest. They, and eventually Reynard, helped prepare me for your mothers, who almost certainly wouldn't have had anything to *do* with the man I was a few years *before* I met them." 

Athos nods thoughtfully — 

Porthos swallows. "All right, but — you're saying that being bound to a dog changed your whole *nature*? Isn't that really bloody *dangerous*?" 

"It was a dangerous *series* of spells that your mother's guardians did on us — they would never have agreed to it if Ife, the youngest, hadn't had a prophecy that you and your mother would need a protector who could fight like a witch *and* a soldier. They *still* wouldn't have done it — but they couldn't find anyone else remotely close to the requirements." Treville frowns and shakes his head. "It didn't work, obviously. It was the act of three desperate women — and your mother and me, who wouldn't have it any other way." 

Porthos frowns. "Even though you didn't... work for her?" 

"I was still in love with her, son," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "She was still the light of my *world*. I still found myself wandering to her rooms in the middle of the night and begging to crawl into her tiny bed with her just so I could *sniff her hair* and *squeeze* her." 

"Uh." 

"The way the All-Mother — are you familiar with our goddess, son?" 

Porthos blinks — 

*Blinks* — but. 

He has a goddess now, and it — *She* — really is the All-Mother. "Uh. Yeah. Yejide taught me some about Her when I was coming up."

"Good. I'll teach you more. The way the All-Mother explained it to me — and She was reaming me senseless with *power* at the time, so it's all a bit hazy —" 

"Uhh..." 

Athos is *staring* — 

Porthos isn't doing any *better* — 

"Basically, the spheres as we know them are infinite. *She* doesn't exist across the entirety of that infinity, but She's bloody huge, and She can see all of Her children at once. All the bloody time. And sometimes — a lot of sometimes — there are different *versions* of one particular child on different versions of *Her*. And, sometimes, magic works by merging those versions together. With Her blessing." 

Porthos licks his lips. 

Athos frowns direfully. 

Porthos drinks *all* of his wine. 

Athos pours more for both of them. 

Porthos drinks *half* of his wine — "Right. So what you're saying —" 

"— is that there were Trevilles... somewhere —" 

"— who were completely all right with cunny?" 

"And that they were... merged... no, I apologize," Athos says, "I've run out of the ability to make this make sense in my mind." 

Treville toasts them both, and smiles proudly. "You both did *exactly* as well as I did with the goddess explaining it to me directly, and I've *been* to other spheres." 

They stare at him. 

"We can discuss that —"

"Does the All-Mother take you... uh. On trips?" 

"Well... yes, sometimes. And She'll do the same with you, son, so best be prepared —" 

"Oh fuck." 

"— but I mostly do my traveling with Jason Blood —" 

"Your lover. Your... the brother I have not yet met," Athos says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "He's an immortal British blood- and fire- and shadow-mage with any *number* of curses on him —" 

"I." 

"— but most of why you haven't met him is because we spend most our time together away from *here*." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "On other spheres?" 

"That's right. Warring with the undead and other magically-inclined pillocks —" 

"What." 

"Sodding *what*?" 

"Sons. I'm a witch and a *shifter* and a *soldier*. Did you really think I was going to take being bumped up to Captain lying *down*?" 

Porthos shares a look with Athos — 

They nod — 

And Athos leans in. "Sir. If we are, indeed, your sons —" 

"You *are* —" 

"Then you will introduce us to your lover and brother and *ally* *before* the next time you leave on another mission with him," Athos says, and narrows his eyes. 

Treville blinks — 

Looks to *him* — 

Porthos *glares* at him — 

Treville licks his lips — and grins.

And laughs, softly, leaning back in his chair and sipping his own wine. 

"Did you have an *objection*." 

"Absolutely not, son. At ease," Treville says, and smiles at them both lovingly. "It's just that Jason is laughing *uproariously* in my head and promising to be here *whenever* it's convenient for both of you." 

"Uh." 

"He was... listening?" 

Treville hums and eats. "His name came up." 

"Right, but was he listening from this *sphere*?" 

Treville raises a finger and keeps eating with his other hand — 

He's obviously concentrating — 

Obviously *talking* to the other — 

And what does he even *look* like? 

This is the man who'd helped Treville take his vengeance for Porthos's *mother* — 

"Mm. And he would've done it for you if he'd met you first, son," Treville says, and takes another sip of wine. 

"Because that's the sort of bloke he is?" 

Treville inclines his head and takes another bite — 

Chews quickly and not at all politely — 

Swallows — "And no, he's not on this sphere. He's on a hell-sphere, negotiating with some demons —" 

"Uh." 

"*Sir* —" 

"— with unpronounceable names —" 

"Look —" 

"— for some more cursed arms and armor for me and the dog. The dog's birthday's coming up." 

And then Treville goes back to eating. 

Porthos looks at Athos. 

Athos looks at him. And shrugs with just his face. 

Right, yeah. "What else does the dog like?"

"Yes. Other than cuddles and —" 

"Cuddles and petting, sons. And lots of it. He *only* gets it from Jason these days, so —" 

"Oh, that's bloody horrible — I mean — wait, is Jason cuddly?" 

"He's very cuddly. Especially with the dog." 

"Right, that's better, but —" 

"What *else*?"

"Yeah, sir, this is *important*." 

Treville smiles at both of them like his heart is hurting. "He could use... a ball. A nice, big, leather one." 

"Oh — I remember —" And Athos turns back to *him*. "Uncle Kitos always had massive leather balls for the dog to play with. They were too big for Thomas and me for *years*." 

Porthos blinks. "How big *is* the dog?" 

Treville gestures to just above the height of the table. "And he's about one hundred and forty pounds. And *much* stronger than even his size would suggest."

"Bloody *hell*. I — now I *really* want to know what my Mum's dog would've been like. And — why doesn't the dog have a *name*?" 

"We caught glimpses of your mother's dog in our shared dreams. We..." Treville flares his nostrils and looks at something in his memories — 

_And then they're all *pounding* through a forest that doesn't seem right, or real, or —_

_Or —_

_Porthos is too low to the ground —_

_The colours of the world are too slow, too faded and —_

_And then Porthos realizes that he's looking through the eyes of a dog —_

_Of *Treville's* dog —_

_(MY BOY GOOD BOY!)_

_What —_

_(MY BOY GOOD BOY MY — MY — but you have a NAME. You have a name and it is PORTHOS PORTHOS!)_

_Yes — fuck —_

_(MY PORTHOS GOOD BOY LOOK! LOOK HERE!)_

_And the dog turns his head while he runs —_

_And there's another dog running beside them, eyes gleaming maroon and lips pulled back in a wild grin. She's sleek and huge, and her fur is a deep, dark brown — and wavy instead of straight._

_It —_

_It's his Mum, it's his Mum's *dog*, and she's right there —_

_(We dreamed this dream many times, my Porthos! We brought down deer and stoats and rabbits and rolled in things that stank!)_

_*Fuck* —_

_(We were together, my Porthos! Together together! Just like WE will be when YOUR dog is ready!)_

_Mum's dog yips and yips and bounds off to the east all of a sudden —_

_Treville's dog follows —_

_(Mates stay together, good boy!)_

_Oh... *fuck* — you must miss her so much!_

And — the dream fades. 

Porthos is at the table again — 

Athos is watching him steadily, ready to offer comfort — 

And there's a great bloody dog wagging his tail at Porthos's feet. 

Porthos reaches out reflexively to cup the dog's head, to stroke him, pet his ears — 

(OH GOOD OH NICE!) 

Porthos grins. "Yeah, eh?" 

(More behind the ears!) 

"Right you are —" 

(I miss my mate every day, my Porthos! I miss my first pack! But you made a second pack for us, with Olivier finally a proper part!) 

And Porthos can feel Treville... reaching for the dog from inside. 

(Olivier is Athos now? Athos Athos? TOO MANY NAMES! TOO MANY WORDS!) 

Athos huffs ruefully. "I apologize —" 

Porthos laughs and scratches the dog a little more. "Is that why you don't have a name, then? Too many words to remember?" 

(Yes good boy! Names for pack is enough. I know names are proper for humans and shifters. All-Mother told me when I was dead.) 

"Uh..." 

(Athos should pet me, too!) 

"Right you are. Get over here, brother," Porthos says, getting down on the floor — 

(OH YES YES YES!) 

Athos huffs and huffs, standing and moving round to join them — "This is going to end with us positively coated with saliva —" 

"We knew that coming *in* to this endeavor, brother —" 

"Oh, God." 

And then the dog *knocks* Athos to the rugs and licks him thoroughly. 

"Oi, now, don't get me jealous," Porthos says, and tackles the dog — 

(YES GOOD BOYS BEST BOYS BEST PACK!)

The maids step over and around them to retrieve the dishes.


	9. Stay on target, Treville.

They're all half under the table, curled together in a messy pile, when the dog suddenly looks up from gnawing on the piece of Porthos's shirt he'd torn off. 

"Mm? What is it, dog?"

"Yes, what do you need," Athos says, sitting up. 

(Treville wants more time! He says I'll come back when it's time for more cuddles!) 

"I —" 

And, just like that, the dog shifts right back into Treville, who is somehow the least mussed of *all* of them. He sits up, tugs the shred of shirt out of his mouth, sighs contentedly, and rests with his back against one of the legs of the table. "How are you boys?" 

Athos hums. "Good." 

"Yeah, *good*, but —" 

"You have always seemed much *better* than merely 'good' after you've spent time as the dog, sir." 

"*That*," Porthos says — 

Treville sighs again and smiles broadly. "That's because I am, boys. I — mm." Treville gives himself a shake and smiles wryly at both of them. "The dog may be a different person than I am, but he's not an *entirely* different person — and I *am* a dog." 

Athos nods — 

And so does Porthos. "You spend a *lot* of time pretending to be more human than you are." 

"I spend a lot of time pretending to be human full stop, son. I'm going to do my best to spare you from that —" 

"No — don't," Porthos says. "Please." 

"Son?" 

"This is something I'm going to have to learn how to do for all kinds of reasons, sir —" 

"You can have *freedom* from it *now*, son — to a large extent. The way I did." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Are you saying that taking that freedom then *didn't* make things harder for you now?" 

Treville opens his mouth — 

"Do listen to Porthos, sir. His work ethic is brutal but sensible." 

Treville coughs — "*Athos*." 

Athos grins. 

It looks *obscene* with all the bruises —

"Does it, brother?"

"*Yes*," Treville says, and pretends to glare at both of them. His eyes are smiling.

"If I recall correctly, sir," Athos says, pulling one knee up and letting the other splay, "Uncle Reynard was bruised and battered and *wounded* rather more often than could be explained by your missions." 

Treville *coughs* — 

"Oh yeah, eh...?" Porthos grins and props his cheek on his fist. He's lying on his side — still in the perfect position to pet the dog — and the only thing that feels strange is that it *doesn't* feel strange. 

(Good,) Treville says, and smiles at both of them — and then at his memories. 

_"Mon ami, ma vie, you have become so *cold*," says the man Porthos knows in his *soul* is Reynard as he walks into what looks like the study of a pretty nice house —_

_He's tall and rangy with fox-red hair hanging midway down his *back* —_

_He's *naked* —_

_Gorgeous —_

_Freckled —_

_*Bruised* —_

_And Treville — younger and dressed in new-looking leathers — looks like Reynard had just hit him with something massive *while* tossing him off. "I."_

_"Well, meneur? What have you to say for yourself?" And Reynard *stalks* across the room to Treville —_

_He's *hard* —_

_He's *flushed* —_

_"Where...? Did you strip off...?"_

_Reynard sucks his teeth. "This is what you say to me? This is how you speak to your *weapon*?"_

_Treville *grunts* — and his big cock jerks under his trousers._

_Reynard *shows* his teeth — and then narrows his eyes. "You have lost your *fire*, meneur —"_

_Treville growls and *grips* the book in his hand —_

_"You have lost your *passion* —"_

_"I'm about to do something extremely violent to you."_

_Reynard lifts his chin and sneers. "Prove it."_

_"Really." And Treville drops the book on one of the end-tables and moves into Reynard's space —_

_Looks up into his eyes —_

_"*That's* how you want to talk to me."_

_"You have given me *none* of your —"_

_The backhand is almost too fast to *see* — and it staggers Reynard on his feet._

_His lip is cut, he's dripping blood on the rugs —_

_And he's grinning like a *madman*. "Meneur..."_

_"I don't think you should say another *word* until I give you permission to *do* so, boy."_

_"*Fuck* —"_

_Treville backhands him *again* —_

_It *spins* him a little —_

_Reynard staggers back and back and *laughs* as he hits the *wall* —_

_Laughs *utterly* madly —_

_Treville is panting and *staring* —_

_His eyes are gleaming a *hot* blue —_

_And they're *both* hard as *steel*._

_And then Porthos can *feel* Treville aching, feel Treville's trousers and breeches *binding* and *hurting* —_

_Feel Treville's *skin* hurting —_

_His *shape* —_

_Because._

_He can smell *oil* on Reynard._

_Treville growls low and menacing and *hungry* —_

_Reynard *stops* laughing and *gasps* —_

_Bares his throat and offers his *belly* —_

_Treville *claws* his belly — and doesn't *stop* when he gets down to Reynard's cock —_

_Reynard *shouts*, cock jerking and spattering them *both* — "S'il te plait, do not *wait* —"_

_"*Reynard*. Don't — *don't* —"_

_"You are losing your control; you want to give me the *dog* —"_

_"*Yes* —"_

_"Cheri," he says, and cocks his head to the side, and does *nothing* about the blood dripping from his lips. "What did you *think* I was asking for, mm?"_

_And they've done this before —_

_They've had this — but it was only *twice*, and Kitos was there both times to *help*, and —_

_Reynard darts in and licks his cheek —_

_Licks it again —_

_Treville is growling and growling and —_

_Reynard *drags* his tongue through Treville's beard —_

_"*Reynard* —"_

_"I want your fur, meneur. I want your sharp teeth and your fat knot and —"_

_And Treville *throws* Reynard to the *floor* —_

_"*Oui*! Ah, *oui*!"_

_"Give me your *arse*," Treville says, and he's snarling, pacing, *throbbing* —_

_Reynard laughs *musically* and *presents* —_

_Like a bitch on *heat* —_

_He —_

_"Oh, Reynard..."_

_"Maintenant, meneur! Plus *vite*!"_

_"I can't —"_

_"*Do* it!"_

_Treville snarls — and shifts, and the dog is huge and hard and growling, *prowling*, sniffing at Reynard's arse —_

_Nipping at his *bollocks* —_

_Nipping at his thighs, his sides, his *cheek* —_

_Reynard *kisses* the dog's *muzzle* — "I have *missed* you!"_

_The dog licks and licks and *licks* his Reynard, shoves his tongue into his Reynard's mouth while he moans and *laughs* — and reaches back to *spread* his arse._

_The dog flares his nostrils and *whines* —_

_The dog needs this, needs everything, needs his REYNARD._

_He moves to sniff at his hole, his musky hole, and there's oil there like there was before, and that's irritating, but it hadn't felt bad, and it hadn't *tasted* bad before, either —_

_"S'il te plait, s'il te —"_

_The dog licks and licks and licks *in* —_

_Licks *deep* —_

_His Reynard *screams* —_

_Clenches around the dog's *tongue* —_

_The dog folds his ears in a little — only a little — and licks him more, more, and it's so good to do this, so good to taste, even with the oil in the way —_

_So good to taste and take his PACK —_

_His REYNARD —_

_But the dog needs more —_

_The dog is aching and jerking —_

_He is so hard!_

_"S'il te — fuck — *fuck* —"_

_He *will* fuck, he will —_

_It's the proper thing to do when your pack is presenting like this, he knows this, it's *right*. The dog pulls back and *mounts* —_

_And he always forgets how *challenging* it is to get his cock in a human —_

_He needs to get *in* —_

_"Fuck fuck fuck — s'il te plait, I will help, I will —"_

_The dog is *shoving* at his Reynard's hole, musky hole, steamy *hole*, but he keeps *missing* —_

_His Reynard is panting and reaching —_

_Touching with his strong, rough fingers —_

_GUIDING! Oh, good boy, good BOY —_

_The dog shoves *IN* —_

_His Reynard *howls* —_

_The dog howls with him, sings with him, fucks him and fucks him, holds him *tight* —_

_His Reynard *chokes* on a howl —_

_Gasps —_

_Wheezes — but he doesn't stop singing in their souls! He is a good boy! He is the *dog's* boy!_

_He is lowering his head, long fur flowing like water all around —_

_So good, so *good* —_

_The dog's knot is already so *big* —_

_Treville needs to stop making them wait so *long* —_

_Treville needs to —_

_To let the dog out so he can fuck their boys, their girls, their *pack* —_

_It's so right!_

_The dog shoves *in* with his knot, as much as he can —_

_His Reynard howls inside them and *clenches* and begs, begs for *more*, he always begs for *more*, he is such a good BOY!_

_The dog shoves *in* — in and in and —_

_Oh, it's so good, so tight, so —_

_His Reynard is sobbing and tossing his head and so —_

_So beautiful, so right so good so —_

_*IN* —_

_YES! And the dog covers his Reynard immediately and ruts, ruts, *BITES* —_

_His Reynard sings and sings and sings so *perfectly* —_

_His blood is all through them!_

_The binding is all through them!_

_He is clawing at the soft rugs like the good boy he is and rocking back into the dog's thrusts and the dog can't think —_

_Can't —_

_Everything is hot, everything is tight, everything is REYNARD REYNARD REYNARD —_

_The dog clutches him *tighter* —_

_Bites *deeper* —_

_Reynard spurts all over the rugs, giving the dog more good scents, more right scents, GOOD BOY!_

_The dog fucks him harder, faster, *faster*, he can't stop —_

_He can't stop even to lick away the blood leaking from the corners of his mouth —_

_He has to fuck his Reynard so — so *hard* —_

_(Ah, oui, mon chien... but let me help...) And then his Reynard starts clenching —_

_Clenching over and *over* again —_

_The dog yips and drops his paws to the rugs in shock, in *need* —_

_His Reynard gasps and clenches *harder* —_

_The dog *yelps* and fucks him, *fucks* him —_

_*Clutches* him again —_

_And his Reynard laughs and laughs as he clenches, as he — as he *works* the dog's cock and knot and the dog is howling, *howling*, fucking Reynard across the room and *filling* his arse —_

_Filling him the way he always *should* be —_

_"*Oui*!"_

_The dog clutches him *harder* as his knot swells and swells, and it hurts to spill, it *hurts*, but he can't stop, it's so right, he has to FILL HIS BOY, give him everything, make him RIGHT —_

_His Reynard clenches again —_

_The dog yelps and croons and yelps *again* —_

_His knot is so *big* for his Reynard!_

_(C'est si bon...)_

_And._

_Eventually he can stop fucking him._

_Reynard makes an unhappy sound, and an unhappy smell._

_The dog bites him harder. He will fuck him happier again in just a minute._

The memory fades — 

Porthos *splutters* — 

Athos blinks and *stares* — 

And Treville licks his whole face with his long, doggy tongue. 

"A large portion of my childhood has been explained," Athos says, and licks his lips. 

"That it has, son." 

"I'm not entirely sure I'm happy about that." 

Treville snickers like a boy. 

Porthos smacks him. "You're an arse, sir." 

"That I am, that I am —" 

"Sir." 

"Yes, Athos?" 

Athos's expression is pinched. "Mother... gave me advice, once." 

"Mm? About?" 

"How I ought to behave around your dog. How I ought to relax and not... fight..." And Athos raises an eyebrow, but looks like he *really* doesn't want to do it. 

Treville blushes. 

*Porthos* stares.

"I... perhaps we can just say that your father was very good at keeping a lead on me when one needed to be kept and leave it at that, son." 

Athos looks *stricken*. 

"Hm. That wasn't... euphemistic enough?" 

"I think maybe you should've avoided the word 'lead' — sorry, brother," Porthos says, and winces a bit.

"I'm. All right," Athos says, and licks his lips — 

And stares at *nothing* — 

And keeps staring at nothing. 

Porthos laughs. "You're not all right." 

"No, I'm not all right." 

*Treville* winces. "Let's... think about..." 

"Sir." And Athos turns to *look* at Treville. "Seduce us."

"Son —" 

"You've been, I believe, *teaching* us about yourself. Yes?" 

"Yes —" 

"You've also been warning us *away* from yourself." 

"I —" 

"He's bloody *what*?" 

Athos turns to *him*. "He wishes to be a good man, brother —" 

"And *not* fuck us blind?" 

Athos nods. "I believe he's decided to try to be a particular *sort* of father to us —" 

"What the — he was licking my beard this *morning*!"

"Your memories were quite clear —" 

Porthos growls and turns to Treville. "Daddy." 

"Oh fuck." 

"Are you bloody *behaving*, Daddy." 

"I'm *trying* to show you both who I am —" 

Porthos growls *low* — 

Treville's ears twitch — "Oh, son, don't —" 

"Are you *behaving* instead of being the man you *are*. The man you *promised* to be." 

"*Shit* —" And Treville's nostrils flare *as* he bangs his head back against the leg of the table. 

"Well, sir?" And Athos raises that eyebrow *high*. 

Treville *pants* —

Looks *hunted* — 

And then growls. 

*Porthos's* ears twitch — 

It's the *oddest* feeling — or possibly the oddest feeling is the one that's making him bare his sodding *throat*. 

"You're *my* boy, son. These things *happen*," Treville says, and shows his *teeth*.

"Bloody *hell* —" 

"I want. To fuck you both blind —" 

"We *know* —" 

"Don't interrupt," Treville says *quietly*. *Ominously*. 

Porthos wants to bare his throat *again* — 

And he doesn't *stop* wanting to when Treville reaches out and *strokes* Porthos's throat with his fingertips. 

Porthos shivers hard.

Athos licks his lips — 

And Treville nods and moves out from under the table, standing and shaking himself and starting to pace, just a little. "You're both right. I *was* trying very hard to pin my cock back, and I *was* being sneaky about it. You're both right that that's *incorrect*. It's not what any of us *want*. It's not what any of us *need*." He stops and gleams at them both. "And it's not what any of us is going to *get*." 

Athos and Porthos share a look — 

And then *they* both stand.

"What *are* we going to get, sir?"

"Seduction — but I warn you, my technique is limited when we're not talking about adolescent boys." 

*Both* he and Athos raise their eyebrows for that. 

"And I'm not warning you away from me, boys. I want you right here... until we retire somewhere with a bed, that is. But." 

Porthos advances a step. "But what?" 

Treville cocks his head to the side. "I didn't tend to piss about with the *men* I was picking up, boys. I didn't tend to..." 

"Make an effort, sir...?" 

Treville looks thoughtful for that, biting the tip of his tongue and nodding slowly. "You could say that. When I wanted a man — a *man* — I tended to walk right up to him, as soon as he was alone — or alone *enough*..." And Treville moves into *Athos's* space — 

Stares at his *mouth* — 

Smiles with *all* of his teeth — 

*Rumbles* — 

And *then* looks up into Athos's eyes with his own *hot* ones. "Interested...?"

"Oh my —" 

"Sir, did you..." 

"Did you bloody do that in *public*?" 

Treville laughs like an arsehole. "Not with my eyes gleaming. Usually." 

"But —" 

"— the *rest*?" 

"I don't. Piss. About," Treville says, and *licks* Athos's open mouth — 

Athos *grunts* — 

Treville raises his eyebrows — 

Athos blushes — and suddenly all of them are thinking about Treville biting Athos's throat *hard*. 

"Mm. Thank you *very* much for that thought, son... but I'm not done seducing you." 

"You." 

Treville winks — and moves into *Porthos's* space. 

"Right, I'm braced, seduce me — *fuck* —" 

And Treville's hand is *only* on the back of his neck — 

Only *squeezing* the back of his neck a *little* firmly, but his knees want to buckle and his cock is jerking and — 

And.

"Are you *scruffing* me?" 

Treville smiles *slowly*.

Porthos suspects he looks *horrified*. 

"Don't be ashamed, son. I gave my *entire* pack reflexes for this kind of thing... in one way or another." 

"*Fuck*," Athos says, enunciating perfectly again. 

"Don't... mm." And Treville licks his lips and flares his nostrils. "I've wondered, more than once, if I could do this to you. If my touch could *drive* you the way it drove —" 

"My *Mum*?" 

"And the way her touch drove me, of course. Blood-magery works in very *particular* ways, son," Treville says, and licks the sweat from Porthos's throat *slowly* — 

Porthos shudders and *groans* — 

(Do you like that...?) 

"Sir —" 

Treville slurps his way *off* — and gleams at Porthos. "You were calling me something else just a few moments ago, son. 

"Oh... shit." 

"I think it would mean more now. Now that you've *felt* me," Treville says, and squeezes the back of Porthos's neck *harder* — 

"Daddy — fuck — I — *fuck* —"

"Much better," Treville says, and licks *his* mouth several times before stepping back — and releasing him. 

And stepping back into *Athos's* space. 

"I. Am not at all braced," Athos says, and huffs. 

"Good," Treville says, flaring his nostrils again. "Do I ever *flog* you in your dreams, son." 

Athos's mouth falls open — 

He *groans* — 

"I." 

"If you admit it... you can have it." 

"I. Sir. Please. Please, yes," Athos says, and he's flushed, he's sweating — 

He smells *delicious* — 

"And he's not yours tonight," Treville says — and raises his eyebrows in question. 

Which — *good*, because *both* he and Athos are grunting and *staring* — 

Blinking and shifting on their feet like *boys* — 

They look to each other — 

"I. Would do anything to avoid your discomfort and unhappiness, Porthos." 

"Right, and I feel the same, but — uh. I need you to be happy. I need you to have exactly what you need." 

Athos takes a shuddering breath and blinks more — "From... both of you?" 

Porthos nods. "Yeah, brother. I — there's nothing wrong here for *me*. Just... it's just a little shocking. In good ways." 

"Yes," Athos says, and licks his lips again. "Yes, that. Thank you, brother." He looks dazed and wild and *ready* — and he turns back to Treville. "Do I belong to you tonight, sir?"

"Yes," Treville says, firm and so — so easy, so *ready* — 

"Do you treat belonging the way Porthos does?"

Treville smiles *warmly* and hotly at once — "Yes."

"Then — then yes, yes, I — please." 

Treville growls — 

Shoves a hand into Athos's hair and *yanks* his head back — 

And bites his throat *hard*, right where *Porthos* had bitten him. 

He — 

"*Yes*!" 

Fuck, he draws blood right *away* — 

Athos pumps his hips at nothing and clutches his *hands* behind his *back* — 

Porthos wants to *touch* — 

Wants to squeeze and grip and *hurt* — 

Athos pumps his hips *again* — 

Porthos wants — 

(Wait your *turn*, son,) Treville says, and starts lapping at the bite-wound — and healing it. 

Athos is groaning and bucking and just *perfectly* ready — 

(But *you're* not,) Treville says, pulling back and licking his way into Athos's mouth for a fast, hard fuck that makes Porthos want — 

A lot of different things. 

(I see...) Treville pulls back again and steadies Athos on his feet, licking his face *gently* and sniffing him seemingly helplessly. 

Porthos can understand all of that — 

Porthos is bloody *hungry* — 

And Treville *pauses*, eyes flaring. 

He pushes Athos into a *chair*, and then *stalks* into Porthos's space — 

"Daddy —" 

"Every time you call me that, I get harder, son," he says, and pushes one hand into *Porthos's* hair — 

Pulls him in *close* — 

"Do you like kisses? Hm?" 

"I — fuck — yeah —" 

"I'm not good at *giving* kisses when I get *too* randy, boys. The dog gets too impatient for them, and would rather have me lick or bite..." And Treville kisses Porthos *softly* — 

And kisses him again — 

And kisses him over and over — 

It's drugging and slow and it gets just a *little* wetter every time — 

Porthos *licks* him — 

And Treville growls and kisses him hard, kisses him *deep*, fucks his way into Porthos's mouth and claws the side of Porthos's *face* with his free hand — 

Porthos pants and *jerks* in his trousers — 

Treville reaches down and grips his hip, yanks him *closer*, makes *love* to his mouth — 

Porthos is moaning and moaning and — 

He wants Treville's hand on the back of his neck again — 

Treville *moves* it there immediately and *squeezes* — 

Porthos bucks and *shouts* into Treville's mouth — 

(Suck my *tongue*, son...) 

Porthos grunts and obeys, and *then* thinks about the fact that he's doing it; that he's *obeying*; that he's *not* obeying his commanding officer, but his father; that he's obeying his father *this* way — 

He blushes *hard* —

He shivers on his *feet* — 

(It's all right, son. I'll *always* take care of you,) Treville says, and then his tongue is getting bigger, *longer* — 

Filling Porthos's *mouth* — 

(You just keep sucking, son. I know you know how.) 

*Fuck* — but Porthos is already sucking more, sucking harder, licking and lapping — 

Lapping *more* — 

It's getting *harder* to suck with how much he *needs* to lap at Treville's mouth — 

(Is that so...) 

I — I'm sorry —

(Shh...) And Treville pulls back enough to lick Porthos's entire *face*. (The dog in *you* has started making his own demands.) 

Oh — fuck — *Daddy* —

(Don't worry about it, son. All of this will be *nearly* as easy as breathing for you once I've guided you through the first several complete shifts,) Treville says, and pulls back with a few last licks. 

"But am I going to need to *mount* *Athos*?"

Athos *coughs* — 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I'll be perfectly honest, son — you're going to *want* to mount each and every last person your dog approves of." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"That's just the kind of person *you* are —" 

"It *isn't* —" 

"— *because*, son, you're a magnificently *dominant* man, on the whole, and the All-Mother is not going to give you a dog who *isn't like you*." 

"... oh. Shit. But, Daddy —" 

"You also like to bend. I know. I can taste it. I can *feel* it. I can... mm. I'm going to enjoy you, son..." 

Porthos grunts and *yips* — 

Blushes *again* — 

"I..." 

"Your dog is going to have extremely strong opinions about just who you'll be *allowed* to bend for, son." 

Porthos blinks. "Uh. *What*?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "You'll feel stifled at first. You'll argue with him. But, in the end? You'll agree." 

Porthos frowns. "Daddy..." 

Treville shivers and cups Porthos's face. "Your dog is going to be closer to the All-Mother than you are, son. *Wiser* than you are." 

"I —" 

"Your dog is going to want you to stay with your *pack* — and with the people who *aren't* in your pack, yet, but who *ought* to be," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos takes a breath and nods. "I — right. That's... that's a little better." 

"You'll settle into it, son. It *will* feel right. I promise you." And Treville is still smiling, but it's softer on his face, and warm, and — 

And he can make vows with his eyes just as well as Athos can. 

"I make vows with my eyes?" 

"Habitually, son," Treville says, and focuses on Porthos. "All right?"

"Yeah, Daddy, I — yeah. It's Athos's turn to have watery knees again." 

Athos huffs. "You don't think enough of me was *damp*, brother?" 

Porthos frowns as fearsomely as he can. "Absolutely not, brother. Your clothes aren't sticking to you hardly at all." 

"I —" 

"Nor will they," Treville says, and grins broadly, showing his tongue a little. 

"No, sir...?" 

"No." And Treville flares his nostrils twice and looks them both over. "It's time for you boys to *strip*."


	10. Opinions are so last week.

There's a moment when Porthos is only staring into nothingness a little and trying to put his current situation into some kind of reasonable *context*. 

The basic facts are all there: He's naked; Athos is naked; Treville is stripped down to his shirt and trousers. 

He's sitting on Treville's bed; Athos is in the process of getting tied to hooks Treville already had hammered into his *wall*; Treville is doing the tying. 

Porthos is Treville's son by blood-magic; Athos is Treville's godson; Treville wants to adopt both of them. 

They're all about to have sex, and lots of it. 

There's nothing there Porthos can't comprehend, really. It's all — 

All right, maybe it's just that all the facts at *once* are a little challenging? 

Athos huffs. He doesn't even *try* to turn away from the wall. "Brother." 

"I don't think people who are tied to *hooks* in *walls* get to scold other people, Athos." 

"I. Hm." 

Treville strokes down over Athos's back with that hard, brutally-scarred hand — 

Athos gasps — 

Gasps *again* when Treville cups and squeezes his *arse* — 

"He's right, you know, son," Treville says in a gentle voice. "You've forfeited your right to have opinions... for now." 

Athos grunts — 

Tenses up *hard* — 

"I — I..." 

"Tell me what you need," Treville says, still in that gentle voice. 

Athos *pants* — "Because — I may have it?" 

"You can always have what you *need*, son." And Treville strokes and pets Athos with both hands. 

"Oh — sir. Porthos said just the same thing." 

"Mm. And I mean it just as much," Treville says, and licks the side of Athos's throat.

"Nnh —" 

"Now tell me what you need, son." 

"I. Will I." Athos swallows and *flushes*, right down his *back* — 

Porthos is just getting *harder* over here — 

"You can do it, son. Ask your question. It's the only way to get answers." 

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir." Athos turns his head enough to see Treville a little and licks his lips. "When... Will I get the right to have opinions back?" 

And that was two different *questions* — 

(So it was...) Treville rumbles and licks and *licks* Athos's face. 

Athos moans and leans into it — 

Takes it just *right* — 

Porthos feels *his* tongue wanting to lengthen and he tamps himself *down* — 

(Good boy. You'll get your turn soon enough,) Treville says — 

"Fuck —" 

And Treville laughs warmly *and* evilly and pulls back a little. "About your question, Athos." 

"Yes — yes?" 

Treville strokes Athos's mouth, dragging his thumb-callus over the scar and wincing with lust. "That all depends, son." 

"It. Does it?" 

"Oh, yes. Whether you get the right to your opinions back — for anything but the *work* — depends on whether you *want* it back, son." 

Athos grunts again — 

Porthos's *cock* twitches — 

Just — *fuck* — 

"I — sir —" 

But Treville presses his thumb to Athos's mouth. Presses *hard*. "I'm going to give you time to think about it, son. Time to..." Treville licks his lips. "Time to really *consider* your *options*." And *then* he moves his thumb. 

"While. I'm being flogged?" 

"And after, son. Now. Do you need anything else before we begin?" 

Athos shivers. "I need. I need to know how Porthos feels about... all of this." 

Porthos's cock *jerks* — 

And Treville smiles with pride. "Of course you do, son. Brothers should always know *everything* about each other," he says, and turns to Porthos with his eyebrows up. 

"Uh. Fuck." Porthos licks his lips. "Brother, I'm hard as stone. So long as *you're* good with all of this, I'm bloody ecstatic," he says, and does his best to make Athos *feel* it — 

Athos *groans* — 

And Treville hums. "Athos just spattered the wall with an *impressive* amount of slick for a human, son." 

"Shit —" 

"You made him feel *precisely* how much you need him, just then." 

"Yes — yes —" 

"How much you *ache* for him." 

"*Yes*," Athos says, panting and shivering and flushed and — 

"In fact," Treville says, "I think I should try that..." 

"HNH — *SIR* —" 

"I'm cheating, of course..." 

And Athos is *bucking* in his restraints — 

"I'm making him feel what it was like to want him for the past *decade* or so..." 

Porthos's *jaw* drops — 

"Want him and not *have* him..." 

Athos cries out and *grips* the restraints — "*Please*!" 

"Please *what*, son." 

"Please *punish* me!" 

Treville strokes down Athos's spine with two fingers, and then sucks the sweat away. "What am I punishing you for, hm?" 

"For not — not *giving* myself — I should have been yours!" 

*Fuck* — 

And Treville is growling low and *staring*. "Is that so..." 

"*Yes*, sir, *yes* —" 

"Because I wanted you, son...?" 

"Because you *needed* me! Because — sir, *please*!" 

Treville growls again and *claws* down Athos's back — 

"*Yes*! Thank you!" 

"Oh, son... just wait," Treville says, and picks up the little leather scourge he'd left sitting on the end-table. 

All it smells like is old, well-cared-for leather, but Porthos can tell that it's well-*used*. The short tails look as supple as Treville's *uniform*. 

That whip had damned well improved the life of at least *one* member of Treville's old pack *often* — 

"Me, mostly," Treville says, and *snaps* the whip between his hands. 

"Uh." 

"I liked the harshness of this one, son. It took longer for me to to heal from the welts it left." 

Athos shivers on his feet — 

Hangs his *head* — 

Pants and *moans* — 

And Treville rumbles and leans in to lick the back of Athos's neck. "I'll have to heal Athos before we leave tomorrow, but... we'll have tonight. And every *other* night you want this, son." 

"Oh, sir..." 

Treville *growls* into Athos's ear -- 

Athos grunts and *freezes* -- 

"Your cock jerked beautifully for that, son... you're giving me many, many beautiful dreams." 

"I -- *I* dream of you, sir!" 

Treville rumbles again. "My good, brave boy," he says, and nips Athos's ear. "You don't have to count the strokes, son, but you *are* going to *thank* me for them —" 

"Yes — yes, sir — I mean — I apologize for interrupting!" 

Treville rumbles more. "That's quite all right, son. Everyone in this room knows how eager you are." 

"Please, yes. *Yes*. What else must I do?" 

"Spend when I tell you to, son. That's all." 

"*Yes*, sir —" 

"Ready?" 

"*Please*, sir, *yes* —" 

And Treville steps back and strikes out with the whip immediately, striping the meatiest part of Athos's arse — 

He gasps and stiffens — "Thank you, sir!" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Good boys. I'm going to start a little slowly, but that won't last," Treville warns — 

"Yes — yes, sir!" 

"Again," Treville says, and strikes for Athos's arse again — 

"*Yes* — thank you, sir!" And Athos is panting and shuddering — 

*Porthos* is panting and gripping the edge of the bed as his cock drips all over bloody everything — 

And Treville sighs and *strokes* over the welts rising on Athos's arse. 

Slowly. 

*Appreciatively*. 

Athos *moans* — 

And Porthos licks his lips. "I want to *bite*." 

"Of course you do, son. You're sane. But we'll have to save that for later," he says, and strikes *twice* —

"AHN — thank you! Thank you, sir!" 

"Good *boy*." 

"*Please*! Please more!" 

Treville licks his lips — 

*Squeezes* himself through his trousers —

He's so *hard* — 

"I'm aching for both of you," Treville says *conversationally*, and then *grins* as he strikes Athos's arse twice more — and then his back *once*. 

Athos jerks and *writhes* — "*Please*! *Please*! Yes!" 

"Very nice, son, but..." 

"I mean — thank you, sir! Thank you for — for — *everything*. *Thank* you." 

"Oh, son... you're doing so well," Treville says, and licks his mouth. 

"Sir — oh, sir — sir, it's so *perfect* —" 

"Mm. I thought you might think so. More now," Treville says, and strikes the backs of Athos's *thighs* — 

"NNH —" 

He does it *again* — 

"*Yes*! Thank you! Thank you!" 

Porthos's cock jerks and spatters his belly, his thighs, the bed, the *floor* — 

Treville *smiles* at him so *hotly* — 

Porthos groans a laugh and grips his own thighs — "Fuck, Daddy, I've never wanted to whip someone more in my *life*."

Treville laughs hard. "*Good*. Your brother's going to need this, after all," he says, turning back to Athos and licking his ear twice. "Won't you, son." 

"*Yes* — I — *yes*! Please more!" 

"Faster...?" 

"Please!" 

"Harder?" 

"*PLEASE*!" 

Treville rumbles. "My boy. Deep breaths now." 

"Yes, sir, yes, I —" 

"Shh. Just breathe." 

Athos shudders and nods and — breathes. 

Porthos catches himself breathing *with* him — 

Treville rumbles *more* — 

His eyes are *gleaming* —

He's *stroking* Athos again — 

And a part of Porthos is only admiring his *technique*. His — 

He *knows* how to go about being a pushy bloke. 

He doesn't just know how to lord it over people; he knows how to *handle* it when a grown man he loves and respects needs to *submit*. 

That's — 

That's not always easy to *do*. 

Not with this kind of *ease* and *skill* and — 

(Porthos. I've been *studying* Athos's memories of how you handled him last night and today.) 

"Uhh..." 

Treville keeps rumbling, but his smile is proud. (My boys are exceptional. Always.) 

Porthos's cock jerks *again* — 

(That's right, son. Don't you touch that... yet...) 

"*Fuck* —" 

Athos's breathing hitches — 

And Treville strokes him more firmly. "Slow and easy, son. You have to be ready for me." 

Athos nods almost violently — 

And breathes — 

And breathes —

"That's it... you're almost there..."

Athos slows his breathing down even more — 

"Oh — perfect. Mm." And Treville licks his throat again. "That's actually a *little* slower than what I need for your whipping, which means that it's time for Porthos to join us." 

"Oh — shit —" 

Treville grins. "Nothing *too* serious, son. You're just going to suck Athos's beautiful cock while I flog him senseless."

Athos *stops* breathing — 

Porthos *stares* — 

Treville nips Athos's ear. "Breathe, son. Just as you were." 

Athos grunts and *obeys*, after a couple of shaky, *gulping* breaths. 

"There you are, son. Porthos...?" 

Porthos laughs. "Fuck, Daddy, I love the way you *work*," he says, standing and crossing the room. 

Treville gleams *at* him. "Are you hungry for it, son...?" 

Porthos takes a breath — and blushes. And *clenches*. 

"Is that so..."

Porthos licks his lips. "Haven't... I haven't had much *good* on the other side of things. Not when it was... serious." 

Treville nods thoughtfully. "I'll take care of you, son." 

And that... Porthos smiles. "I already know that." 

Treville flares his nostrils and growls — but when he reaches out, his hand is gentle on Porthos's face. Caressing and easy and *petting*. 

His hand is so *hard*, but — 

But he knows exactly how to use it. 

Exactly how to *touch* a man — 

All different *ways* to touch a man —

Porthos shivers on his feet and moans — 

"My boy..." 

"Yeah, Daddy, I — yeah," Porthos says, blushing again. 

"Oh, son... on your knees. You know what to do." 

Porthos grunts — and obeys, getting *right* into position. It means pushing Athos back away from the wall a little — 

And *that* means that Athos is up on his *toes* now.

He's still breathing steadily, though. 

He's — 

Fuck, such a good *boy* — 

Porthos *swallows* his cock — 

Athos cries out — "I apologize! I — I'll *breathe* —" 

"No. You. *Won't*," Treville says, and Porthos hears the whip *crack* against flesh — 

Athos shouts and *bucks* — 

Porthos sucks *reflexively* — 

Athos *screams* — 

"Oh, sons..."

"Thank you! *Thank* —" 

The whip cracks again — 

Again and *again* — 

Athos bucks and writhes and *fucks* Porthos's *throat* — 

Athos shouts and *howls* — 

Treville isn't *pausing* — 

"Please! Please let me! I can't think!" 

"You can't thank me anymore, son...?" And Treville still isn't *pausing* — 

Athos *slams* in and *sobs* — "I can't — I'm so grateful, so *grateful*, please don't stop!" 

"Oh, son... good boy. Don't *spend*." 

Athos goes *rigid* — 

Porthos eases back on the sucking — 

"Don't do *that*, Porthos..." 

*Fuck* — 

Treville laughs *evilly*. "*Suck* him. Let me feel. Let me *taste*. Show me what my boy can *do*." 

Porthos groans and *works* his head on Athos's cock — 

He can't — 

He can't *stop* himself from doing it, from doing it fast, wet, *dirty* — 

"Good *boy*," Treville says, and he's growling as he *flogs* Athos — 

Gets him — but where? 

"His *back*." 

*Shit* — 

Athos is grunting and shouting and *fucking* Porthos's mouth, in and in and *in* — 

His sweat is dripping right down all over Porthos's head and shoulders — 

He smells so good — 

He *tastes* so bloody *good* — 

"Back to his arse now..." 

Athos *howls* — and Porthos heats up all over, tries to imagine what it *feels* like, one stripe after another on all the *older* welts — 

How it has to *burn* — 

How every hit has to be a shock because of the pain, but also *not* be, because Treville's strikes are so *regular* now — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

"Do you want it, Porthos...?" 

Porthos *chokes* on Athos's cock — 

"Shh, shh, don't do that. You don't have to think about challenging things now. Swallow that cock right back down." 

Porthos flushes and *obeys* — 

Just — he *needs* to — 

He has to *take* it — 

He has to take it from *both* Athos and his — 

Treville, he has to take it from Treville, and he — 

He will, right now, right on his knees, and Athos is *pounding* his throat, yelling *helplessly* between *sobs* — 

It's so good — 

It's so *fucking* good — 

"Faster now..." 

Athos gasps — 

Porthos's cock jerks — 

"My beautiful *boys*," Treville says and the strikes fall and fall and *fall* — 

Athos is fucking him so *raggedly* — 

The sweat is dripping down so fast and so — 

Porthos wants to taste every drop — 

Porthos wants to taste every *welt* — 

"So. Do. *I*." 

Athos *yells* — 

"Oh, son... almost," Treville says, and *he's* panting, growling, growling so *harshly* as he strikes and strikes and — 

"*PLEASE*!" 

"*Good* boy. *Spend*!" 

Athos croaks a *shocked* noise — 

*Slams* into Porthos's throat — 

Slams in again, again — 

It hurts so *perfectly* — 

"Here you go, son," Treville says, and the whip cracks *loudly* — 

And Athos screams and spurts all over the back of Porthos's throat, coating him, *filling* him when he shoves back in — and then Treville grabs Athos's hips and *grinds* him into Porthos's mouth — 

Athos *howls* again — 

Porthos swallows and swallows — 

Takes it *all* — 

His *eyes* are rolling up and he needs — 

Fuck, he doesn't *know* what he needs, but this is an excellent bloody start. 

Treville laughs *hard*. "Good *boys*," he says. "You just... stay right here." And he pants and keeps *grinding* Athos in — 

Athos is *sobbing* again — 

Porthos is shivering and *aching* — 

"You both did so well... mm. Didn't Athos do well, Porthos? And didn't Porthos do well, Athos?"

*Fuck*, yes!

"Yes — I — *please* — so *much* — he *always* —" 

"That's *right*. My boys excel at *everything* they try," Treville says, rumbling and rumbling and tugging Athos back. 

Porthos suckles that cock all the way out — 

Athos *whimpers* — 

"Good boys... good, good... mm. Let's get you down from there, son. Porthos, move over just a little... perfect." 

"Right you are, Daddy," Porthos says, and watches Treville undo the leather straps with the ease of long practice.

Athos *slumps* into Treville's arms — "Oh — I didn't mean to — I apologize —" 

"Shh, it's all right," Treville says, and bloody *lifts Athos into his arms*. 

"Uhh..." 

Treville winks at him. "Shifters are nearly always stronger than other people, son — whether or not the other people are human." 

"Right, I was going to talk to you about how *I* was getting stronger — but you need to take care of Athos." 

"That I do, son," Treville says, and carries a *dazed*-looking Athos to the bed. "But I can do more than one thing at a time." And he licks Athos's mouth. "Do you want to lie on your back or your belly, son?" 

"Please, I — I want to see..." 

"Good boy. You've always needed to understand *everything*," Treville says, and lays Athos down on his back *gently* — 

Athos still gasps and *arches* — 

His eyes are wide and *wild* for *long* moments — 

And Treville is stroking him and rumbling, petting, *cossetting*. "It's all right, son. You can take it..." 

"Yes — I — *yes*," Athos says, and *drops* down — and immediately shouts and arches back up again. 

Porthos winces *for* him — 

"... though not if you do that," Treville says, and keeps petting. "Gently, son. *Slowly*." 

"I — can take this." 

"Yes, you can. And you *will* take it, because you need to. You need to see *everything* I have with your brother." 

"Oh — *please*." 

"The answer is yes," Treville says, smiling gently. "Now slowly lower yourself... yes, that's it... there. There you are, son. How's that?" And Treville caresses Athos's face. 

Athos pants and sweats and grins like a boy. "I feel so *alive*, sir."

Treville grins at both of them. "I am very, very, *very* happy that I didn't know Athos would respond this way to pain when he was an adolescent." 

Porthos *snorts* and rests his hands on his thighs. "Sweaty palms at the de la Fere dinner table, Daddy?" 

"I already *had* those, son. I was *training* him, you'll recall, and I'd spend hours with his *scents* high in my nose." 

"*Shit*." 

"I..." 

"No, boys," Treville says, and strokes a meandering path down Athos's chest. "If I'd known anything — anything at *all* — about what my little Olivier actually *liked* and *wanted* from a sexual encounter..." 

"Sir, *I* didn't know." 

"Mm. I dreamed of teaching you, son. But if I'd had a *hint*... I would've been hard-pressed not to try to *talk* to you about it." 

Porthos blinks. 

*Athos* blinks. "I... was expecting something different from the end of that sentence." 

"Right, so was I —" 

Treville yips a laugh and moves to stand over Porthos. "*Think* about it, boys. Think about *how* I go about talking about sex." 

"Oh —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"Precisely. I wouldn't have gone into the conversation *intending* to seduce my godson — I would've had the most high-minded ideals about helping him figure out what he wanted from the world, and all of its beautiful people." 

"Right, but you... *shit*."

"Sir..." 

"Mm?" And Treville looks to Athos *while* stroking Porthos's ear — 

Which feels *amazing* — 

And *weirdly* arousing — 

Treville strokes his ear *harder* — 

Porthos *rumbles* — 

"Oh, that's a perfectly incredible sound..." Athos licks his lips and blinks at him. "I rescind my question until later." 

"Are you *sure* about that, son?" 

"Yes, I — ultimately, I already know that my parents trusted you not to make love with me if that wasn't what I deeply desired — and if I didn't *express* that desire to you in some way." 

"I — yes. They did," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "But I want to give you more of your parents, son. You need to know them better than you do." 

"Agreed. I will happily take your memories at any time you wish to give them, sir... but I believe I'm going to do something ill-advised if Porthos gets any harder without relief." 

Treville *barks* a laugh — 

Porthos snickers. "Like *move*, brother?" 

"With alacrity, even. There's no time to waste, brother." 

"Mm. Agreed," Treville says, and moves his hand from Porthos's ear to his chin, tilting Porthos's face up until they're meeting each other's eyes — 

Until Porthos is *smiling* up into Treville's eyes — and feeling just a little small. 

A part of him had expected it — Treville has been bringing him right down all *night* — but there's still a shock to it. 

A *heart*-knock and goosebumps and — 

"Son..."

"I. Yeah, Daddy?" 

"Will you let me make you mine tonight...?"


	11. If you're ever wondering why the sub is the one who runs the show in D/s relationships? It's because they do the heavy lifting.

*Shit* — 

Porthos is *blushing* again — 

But there's only one answer in his head, there's only one answer he can *imagine* giving — "Yeah. Yeah, I will. Please." 

Treville growls and — pets Porthos. Pets his hair, and his ears, and the back of his neck — 

"Fuck, that feels *good* —"

"Never turn down petting from a loved one, son. You need it now — even more than you needed it before." 

"I — because I'm a dog." 

"That's right, son. That's just right," Treville says, and pushes his fingers *through* Porthos's hair before gripping it *tight* — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Do you know what you want? Hm? Do you know what you need from your Daddy?" 

Porthos feels like his face is going to catch *flame* — 

"You're beautiful, son. You're perfect."

"On — on my knees?" 

Treville smiles warmly. "Everywhere."

Porthos flushes. "Daddy..." 

"You want to kick — no. You *need* to kick, just a little, because this sort of thing has never been *right* for you. Right?" 

"I — I've gone to whores — I've gotten *hidings* —" 

"But you've made all the choices there. Haven't you. Every little aspect of every encounter was, ultimately, under your control." 

Porthos inhales — and licks his lips. "Yes, Daddy. I — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh. It's all right. We're not so different, son. I spent so much time hiding from my own needs and desires that, when I finally had the opportunity to *get* what I needed and wanted from my pack... well. I kicked. A *lot*." 

"I —" 

"You weren't hiding. Not like that. I know, son. But you also weren't getting *all* of what you needed and wanted for various reasons — and trust me when I say that the results are similar." And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

And Porthos — breathes. 

And breathes. 

He was about to fight for no *reason*. 

He was about to — but. 

"You could — you could scruff me again, Daddy. Or — growl. Go *hard* on me." 

"Force past your resistance, son?" And Treville raises his eyebrows again — and then looks thoughtful. 

He — 

He *is* thinking about it, thinking about what's best for *both* of them — 

Porthos *knows* it — 

"That you do, son," Treville says, and starts stroking through Porthos's hair again, slowly and firmly — 

Porthos settles into it and breathes — 

Just breathes — 

Breathes in Treville's good *scents*. Leather and slick and sweat and wine and steel and *animal* and *power* — 

Old soldier. Old *witch*. Old *dog*. 

Porthos shivers. He could let *that* take him over. 

He could let how *strong* Treville is just — 

"Do you like that, son." 

Porthos takes a breath. "I..." 

"Do you like — hmm." And Treville smiles *warmly* again. "Would you like the opportunity to be... pushed around, just a little." 

Porthos grunts. "It — it wasn't a good *thing* when I was coming up —" 

Treville growls low. "No, it wasn't. And believe me, son, I want to take everyone who's ever hurt you and tear them *apart*."

"Fuck —" 

"But." And Treville *grips* Porthos's hair again. "It's all meant that you've had to fight. That you've had to be *strong*. That you've had to *make* yourself as strong as you could possibly *be*." 

"*Yeah* —" 

"I'm still stronger than you, son." 

"What — what?" 

"I've just a few more tricks up my sleeve than you do, due to the fact that you're not actually a *mature* mage, yet — and due to my long association with Jason Blood." And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"You can... push me about." 

"I can." 

"You can — I — Daddy..." 

"I *can*, son. I can give you the chance..." And Treville's eyes gleam as he strokes down to the back of Porthos's neck — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Treville rests his hand there. Just that. 

Just — 

"You haven't been a small boy in a long, long time, son..." 

"Nuh — no. Daddy, I — I'm not..." 

"Mm? You're not what, son?" And Treville strokes the back of Porthos's neck so *gently*. "Tell me. Nothing happens here without you being ready for it." 

Porthos *breathes* — and *thinks* about what's stopping him, what's — 

He *knows* Treville will take care of him. He knows Treville will give him everything he bloody *wants* — 

Everything he bloody *craves* — 

Everything he's even *once* fantasized about — he can *feel* it. 

And he can see it in the love in his eyes. 

His *father's* eyes. 

So what's stopping him? 

Is it really just all the *time*? 

All the time he's spent being hard, being — being pushy and big and bloody *controlling*? It's who he *is* — 

"Brother, I apologize for everything I've done to *keep* you from this," Athos says, and he looks so *hurt* — 

"What? *No*! Athos — bloody *no*. I *love* having you on your knees!" 

"But —" 

"But *nothing*. I wouldn't change *anything* about our time together, brother. It's been bloody *perfect* —" 

"But if it's made it harder for you to have what you need —" 

"Not that, son," Treville says, and *squeezes* Porthos's neck to silence him — 

Porthos grunts and knows that's what he's supposed to *do* — 

It feels so *perfect* — 

It feels so *right* — 

Athos blinks. "Oh... that." He licks his lips. 

"And, of course, you've seen Porthos bend to me at several other points this evening." 

"*Yes*, sir. But —" 

"But he still struggles. He still stands back *up*. Yes?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"This, boys," Treville says, and lets up on Porthos's neck. 

Porthos gasps and pants and pants and — 

His cock is *jerking* — 

Leaking all over the *rugs* — 

He wants to — 

He can't *think* properly — 

"But you *want* to think properly again," Treville says. "Right?" 

"I — yeah — *fuck*. I'm *sorry* —" 

"Shh, son. Not that," Treville says. "Think about this: Throughout Athos's childhood and adolescence — and into his adulthood — he was surrounded by authority figures. *Powerful*, *demanding* authority figures who took up huge swathes of his time and attention. Who taught him and trained him and *consciously* shaped him into the particular man he's become. Who, in short, *prepared* him to *submit*." 

Athos and Porthos *both* grunt — 

"You, Porthos, had your *mother* — who damned well did the same thing with you. She did it even *more* assiduously in some ways — I don't need your memories for that, though I want them. I *know* her. I *know* she would've trained you more ruthlessly than the *hardest* lieutenant." 

"I —" 

"But that's... mm. Who else did you have, son? What other *authority* figure did you have, after my Amina-love was gone, who you could *trust*." 

"I..." And he *wants* to say Yejide's name, he *does*, because Yejide *had* been there for him, and taught him things, and made sure he was fed and all that before he could take care of himself, but — 

"But she was cold. I can feel that. She wasn't *meant* for children, maybe." 

"No, Daddy. I. You're saying... I'm not as *prepared* for this kind of sex as Athos is." 

"Oh, you were prepared for this kind of *sex*, son. There's all those brothels in your past, after all." 

"I — right, right —" 

"But you were *not* prepared for this kind of *lovemaking*," Treville says. "And it's not your fault, and it's not *your* fault, Athos — so both of you get that right out of your minds." And he *looks* at them. 

Athos and Porthos share a look — 

Smile ruefully and nod together — 

"Yes, sir." 

"Yes, Daddy." 

"Good boys. Good *sons*," Treville says, and goes back to petting Porthos. "Now, son. I *want* to give you everything that makes you *wild* — and I want to make you mine —" 

"*Yes*, Daddy —" 

"— *but*, more than anything else? I want you to be *comfortable* and *happy* with me. Which just might mean that you *don't* submit to me *today*." 

"Daddy, *no* —" 

"Wait, son. Think about it," Treville says, and caresses Porthos's face again — 

Porthos shivers — 

"You're such an exceptional man, son. Do you have any idea how many discipline problems I *should* have had with a man with your history?" 

Porthos blinks — and nods slowly. 

"But you learn fast. You learn *everything* fast when you put your back into it. You work so *hard*..." And Treville rumbles and caresses him again — 

Again — 

"This doesn't have to be work, son. That's all. We can ease into things. We can take it slow, and get to know more about each other, and make each other more *comfortable*."

Porthos pants. 

Just — 

Porthos pants and *stares* up at Treville — 

And Treville licks his lips. "You don't like that. Tell me why, son." 

"I don't want — I can't make you wait, Daddy." 

"Which of those, son. This is a very important question." 

Porthos blushes — 

Shivers *hard* — 

*Aches* — "I can't. I can't — it would feel like... turning away from you." 

Treville flares his nostrils — and raises his eyebrows. "And maybe like turning away from a job?" 

Porthos blushes harder —

Treville caresses his cheek again. "Your brutal work ethic is showing, son..." 

"*Please* —" 

"Shh. You don't have to beg. Not for this," Treville says so *gently* — 

It makes Porthos's heart *knock* again — 

He knows what he's *asking* for — 

He knows. 

He knows what he's *begging* for. 

Treville licks his lips, and strokes Porthos's ear with his callused fingers. 

"Daddy..." 

"I'm going to scruff you again in just a moment, son —" 

"*Please* —" 

"— and then we're going to *talk*." 

"Uh. What?" 

Treville grins *wickedly* — and still so *warmly*. "Did you think I planned to have things be this hard on you *every* time, son?" 

"I —" 

"We're going to build a nice, strong foundation tonight, son. And then, each time you bend for me will be a little easier than the last." 

Porthos licks his lips — 

This is going to happen more than once. 

This — he'd *known* that, but somehow he hadn't *thought* about it — 

Somehow he hadn't put it in the right places in his *mind* — 

And Treville's hand is on the back of his neck — 

And Porthos is *moaning* — 

"I'm keeping you *forever*," he says, growling and *squeezing*, and — 

For a moment, Porthos can't *see* — 

He's too *scrambled* — 

His cock had jerked *while* he'd clenched — 

His nipples *ache* — 

"Oh, son..." 

"Daddy — Daddy —" 

"It's time to answer some questions for your Daddy, son..." 

"Yes — *fuck* —" 

And Treville squeezes *hard* — 

Porthos's cock jerks *twice* — 

Porthos *croons* — 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"How do you feel about sucking cock, son?" 

"UNH — I love it! I love doing it — I *miss* it when I haven't done it in a long time —" 

"Good boy. I saw how good you were at it..." 

"Thank you, Daddy —" 

Treville *squeezes* again — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Let's think about sucking cock while you're *bent*, son." 

"I — I —" 

"Have you done it? Mm?" 

"Not — not in good ways, Daddy. Not in *real* ways." 

"Oh, son... mm. I'll just think about that at *length*." 

"Please —" 

"Or should I keep going in this vein, mm?" And Treville *massages* Porthos's neck — 

Porthos can't *focus* — 

All he can feel, all he can *sense*, is — 

Is Daddy. Not Treville, *Daddy*, because he's got him, he's over him, he's holding him, he's — 

Porthos *belongs* to him, he feels it, he can't feel anything *else* — 

Athos gasps — 

"Oh, son..." And Daddy rumbles and *growls* — 

Porthos *whimpers* — 

"You *do* belong to me, son. You always *have* belonged to me. From the very first moment I was bound to you — and your mother." 

Porthos pants and pants and turns to lick the inside of Daddy's arm — 

Taste him — 

Taste his *salt* — 

Daddy *growls* — 

Porthos *leaks* — 

"Is that what you want, son...? To taste me...?" 

"I want everything, Daddy!" 

Daddy growls *again* — 

Porthos can't *think* — 

"You can and you *will*." 

Porthos yips and *flexes* open — "Yes, Daddy!" 

"Oh, son... mm. Do you want to be fucked...?" 

"Yeah! I do!" 

"Do you want your *throat* fucked?" 

"Hnh — oh, Daddy, yeah, yeah, let me — let me — open me *up* —" 

Daddy *snarls* — "What about your beautiful *arse*, son." 

"*Yes*. I — I have a *toy* —" 

Athos *grunts* — 

"Really, now..." And Daddy squeezes his neck *hard* again — 

Porthos bucks and *shouts* — 

"Is it a *big* toy, son...? Is it nice and long and *thick*?" 

Porthos laughs and moans. "Not as big as you, Daddy, but *yeah*." 

Daddy growls and growls — "How hard do you fuck yourself, son. How hard do you *use* yourself." 

"UNH —"

"You have to answer me, son..." 

"Yes, Daddy, please, I — fuck, I want to, I want to tell you *everything* —" 

Daddy growls *sharply* — 

Squeezes *bruisingly* hard — 

Porthos's mouth falls open on a croon and his cock jerks over and *over* again — 

He wants to bare his *throat* — 

He wants to lift his *arse* — 

"I'm losing... a little control..." 

Porthos gasps — 

"It's all right, son. I won't injure my boys. My beautiful boys..." And Daddy growls more and *adjusts* himself in his trousers with his free hand — 

"*Please* —"

"You just have to answer my questions, son. All of my questions. Nice and... fast," Daddy says and *pants* — 

Porthos flushes *hard* — "I fuck myself *brutally*, Daddy —" 

And Daddy is growling *again* — 

Porthos is shivering and *aching* — 

And Athos is panting on the bed — and stroking himself *off*, by the sound of it.

"Is that how you want *me* to treat you, son. Do you want me to *hurt* you with my cock?" And Daddy *loosens* his grip on Porthos's neck — 

Porthos blinks and blinks — 

"You have to think about this one, son. Just a little. But... quickly." 

Porthos *moans* — he doesn't have to think, at *all* — 

"*Son* —" 

"Harder is always *good* with you, Daddy. You — you know what you're bloody *doing*." 

Daddy pants and pants and — snarls. 

"Yes —" 

"*Up*. On the bed, next to your brother, on your *back*." 

"*Fuck* —" And Porthos scrambles to his feet and *obeys* — 

"I need to see my boys," Daddy says. "I need to see everything —" 

He rolls his head on his *neck* — 

And he strips off everything but his *wet* breeches — 

"Oh, fuck, Daddy —" 

"Right here, son," he says, crawling on between Porthos's spread legs — 

He'd spread his legs — 

"Yes, you *did*. You're a good son. *Just* like your brother," Daddy says, leaning over and pulling a pot of what smells like *good* oil out of the bedside table. 

Porthos should've known it wouldn't be *pomade* — 

"You'll get used to all of this, son. Won't he, Athos." 

Athos huffs *breathlessly*. "Oh, yes, I'm quite certain all of this will be perfectly routine soon enough." 

Porthos *coughs* a laugh — 

And Daddy grins, bright and wide and *wild* as he *grips* Porthos's cock in his hand — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"So long. So *fat*. So *wet*." 

"UNH —" 

"Your cock is perfect, son. *Beautiful*," Daddy says, and squeezes *gently* — 

Except that Porthos is *howling* — 

Arching and *howling* — 

He can't — 

He's *bucking* into Daddy's fist — 

He can hear Athos making *garbled* sounds beside him and stroking himself *faster* — 

He can — 

Fuck, he's *not* howling anymore, but he's still *pounding Daddy's fist* — 

"That's right, son," Daddy says, and licks his whole *face*. And then grins. "Your cock is going to be even *more* beautiful soon." 

"Fuck — *fuck* —" 

"I'm squeezing what will be your *knot*, and oh, son... it will drive you *mad*." 

"*Please* —" 

"The first time you bury it in Athos —" 

Athos *groans* and squeezes *himself* — 

"You'll lose your *mind* —" 

"Oh, *fuck*, Daddy —" 

"But I'll be there to help you both through it. I'll be there to make sure you both have the *best* possible *time*," Daddy says, and *slowly* releases Porthos's cock — 

"Unh — please — please more —" 

"Mm," Daddy says, and licks his *hand* — 

Laps and *bites* at his hand — 

*Growls* — 

Porthos spreads his legs *wider* — 

And Daddy's eyes *flare*. He drops his hand. "The next time we do this... I'm going to taste you *thoroughly*, son." He licks his lips and looks to Athos. "Both of you." 

Porthos *whines* — 

Athos groans —

"My *boys*," Daddy says, opening up the little pot and slicking his fingers — 

Slicking *all* of his fingers — 

But Porthos thinks of all the images Athos has shared — 

Porthos licks *his* lips — 

He's *clenching* for the *thought* of it — 

"Are you, son...?" 

"Yeah — yeah —" 

"Why don't you open wide, instead...?" 

"I —" 

And then Daddy pushes in with *two* — 

Just — just like *that* — 

Porthos *gasps* as his cock jerks over and *over* again — 

Daddy's fingers are so *thick* — 

So long and — 

He'd pushed all the way *in* — 

Porthos already feels so *full* — 

And Athos is *panting*. "I want that. I *want* that." 

Daddy growls — 

Porthos clenches *tight* —

"*Open*." 

Porthos *grunts* and flexes open half in *shock* — 

*Daddy* pants — and crooks his fingers — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Good boy, son. *Good* boy." 

"Please — please —" 

"Shh," Daddy says, and starts to *thrust* his fingers — 

Porthos moans *helplessly* — 

"Good boy... and Athos," Daddy says, and *grins* at Athos. "If you want this...?" 

"I *do*, sir. I — Porthos is sharing what he's *feeling* —" 

"That's right, he is. He can't *help* doing that with as much of a grip as I have on him." 

"Oh..." 

Porthos moans more and clenches again — 

Panics because he can't *remember* how to open himself all of a sudden — 

He can't — 

"*Do* it." 

He flexes *open* — "Yes, Daddy, *sorry*, Daddy —" 

"Oh, son... you'll learn. And you're doing just fine," Daddy says, and goes back to thrusting — 

To *fucking* him with his fingers — 

It's feels so — 

So — 

His fingers are so warm, so — 

So *strong* — 

"Ride them," Daddy says, low and *hard* — 

Porthos shouts and clenches — 

"*Open*." 

Porthos flexes open and *rides*, *rides*, *takes* those fingers the way he should, the way he *knows* he *should* — 

Athos *whimpers* — 

"If you want this, Athos..." 

"*Please*, sir!" 

Daddy rumbles. "Then be a good boy for Porthos." 

"I —" 

"Be a good *brother* to him, and for him, and let him open you up nice and wide..." 

"Oh, God..." 

"Because we're *both* going to need you loose and *sloppy*." 

"*Fuck*," Athos says, enunciating again, and tossing himself off brutally hard, brutally *fast* — 

Porthos can't *focus* well enough to *watch* — 

He wants to *see* — 

"I — I'll *show* you, brother — I promise you —" 

"Fuck —" 

"Mm. Maybe he'll show you *while* you're opening him, son — " 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Maybe he won't be able to *stop* himself —" 

"Fuck, Daddy, *fuck* —" And Porthos is riding those fingers *faster* — 

"Maybe you'll have to *punish* him," Daddy says, and *crooks* his fingers — 

Porthos *yells* — 

"*Good* boy," Daddy says, and grips Porthos's *cock* again with his free hand — 

"*Please*!" 

"Get *loose*," Daddy says, and Porthos *immediately* flexes open again — 

Tries to takes more — 

Somehow *more* — 

"Oh, son, that's good, that's perfect. Here," Daddy says, and fucks him *hard* with those two fingers — 

Porthos *barks* — 

Daddy *growls* — 

Porthos flexes open *again* — 

"Son, you're making me so *hungry*," Daddy says, and he's shoving in, *in*, and Porthos *does* fuck himself this hard, but it's different, the position, it's another person — 

It's *Daddy* — 

He needs *more* — 

He *feels* Daddy, feels his *need* — 

Feels him *aching*, and *Porthos's* cock jerks for it, aches for it — 

"Mine, *too*, brother, I — I — it's *incredible* — I feel *both* of you and I don't *wish* to spend —" 

"Then *don't*," Daddy says, *snarling* — 

Athos *gasps* — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Don't spend at *all* until I tell you to, son," Daddy says, and starts *teasing* Porthos's hole with the knuckle of his third finger — 

Fucks him hard and slow and *teases* — 

Porthos is shuddering and *aching*, *needing* — 

"Needing to be fucked, son?" 

"*Please*!" 

"Needing to get..." Daddy pants. "You want your Daddy to fill you right up. Don't you." 

"*Fuck* — I — I –"

"Every time you blush I get hotter. *Harder*. I *dream* of the boy you used to be and the man you are now and I want to *bury* myself in you!" 

And Porthos feels himself just — drop. 

His belly clenches — 

His mind is — 

Sinking and sinking and Daddy is growling, *holding* him, holding his *spirit* — 

He's Daddy's *boy* — 

"That's *right*. And boys are meant to take what they're given. Now aren't they." 

Porthos gasps — 

Drops *more* — 

Flexes *open* — 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and starts pushing in with that third finger, starts — 

Just working him *open* — 

So *wide* — 

Porthos hasn't *been* opened this wide — 

The toy is *smaller* than Daddy's three fingers — 

"Really, now. Mm. You'll take this, son." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"You'll take it for *me*." 

"Please —" 

"Say it." 

"Please, Daddy, for *you*!" 

Daddy snarls and *shoves* in — 

Porthos screams — 

Athos *gulps* air and *grinds* his back down against the *bed* — 

He — 

"I need the pain — I need the *pain*." 

"Move your *hand*, Athos," Daddy says — 

"*Yes*, sir," Athos says, obeying immediately — 

And Daddy slaps his cock *twice* — 

Athos *howls* — 

Porthos *clenches* and howls — 

"My *boys*," Daddy says, panting and staring down at both of them — 

He's so hungry — 

"I'm *starved*, boys. I'm — oh, boys, I'm going to eat you both alive *every* chance you give me." 

"*Thank* you, sir," Athos says, and he's panting so *harshly* — 

Porthos wants *everything* — 

"You're *welcome* — and you'll *both* have everything of me. And of each other, too," Daddy says, and licks his lips — 

And *crooks* all three fingers — 

Porthos is *covered* with new sweat and trying to spread his legs wider, trying to give, trying to — 

He needs — 

He *needs* this — 

"Yes, you do, son... oh, my perfect boys..." And Daddy starts to *fuck* him with those fingers — 

All three of those fingers — 

Porthos pants and *groans* — 

His cock is so *hard* — 

"Do you need to spend, son? Mm? *Before* I let your brother spend again?" 

Athos *pants* — 

Porthos *stares* — "I — I don't..." 

"You *don't* usually let yourself spend first. I *know*," Daddy says, and shows his teeth. "I bet you make it an *occasion* when you spend first. I bet it's a *part* of your dominance." And Daddy raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos blushes — "Yes, Daddy. I — yeah. I do it that way —" 

"You're not dominating *anyone* tonight, son, so I think you ought to spend on my fingers *and* on my cock." 

"Fuck — *please* —" 

"It's time for you to lose every last *bit* of control, son," Daddy says, and grips Porthos's growing *knot* again — 

Porthos *screams* — 

"Good *boy*. *Take* it," Daddy says, and *pumps* Porthos's knot as he fucks him, as he — 

He squeezes and thrusts and releases and thrusts and squeezes — 

Porthos can't stop *screaming* — 

He's so hot — 

It feels so good — 

So — 

He's sweating all over the *bed* — 

He can't *see* — 

Everything — 

Everything is so hot, so good — 

He feels so open, so *ready*, so — 

Daddy is going to *fuck* him — 

"Not. *Yet*," Daddy says, and squeezes *hard* — 

Porthos *howls* again — 

"Good *boy*. Now don't make your Daddy *wait*." 

"Daddy —" 

"*Spend*," Daddy says, and thrusts in, fucks *in*, twists and *crooks* — 

Porthos's stomach drops — 

He *gasps* — 

He catches a *glimpse* of Daddy's *wild* eyes and *flaring* nostrils — 

And then all he can see are wild colours and *light*, all he can feel is — 

Is everything *igniting* — 

He's burning as he *spurts* — 

"Good *boy*," Daddy says, and fucks him *harder* — 

Porthos hears himself *bark*, and he's spurting more, more — 

"I want — I want to *taste*," Athos says — 

"You will. Just wait," Daddy says, and fucks him so — 

So *dirty* — 

He's twisting his fingers and *milking* Porthos's pleasure-button — 

It feels so *perfect* — 

Porthos is still *spilling* — 

"My *boy*," Daddy says, and *stops* milking him, fucks him, fucks him hard, *hard* — 

Spreads his *fingers* — 

Porthos *chokes* on a howl and spasms *dry* — 

"There you are..." 

But he doesn't *stop* fucking Porthos — 

Not even when he slumps — 

Not even when he groans and *shakes* — 

"Why would I?" 

Porthos feels himself *drop*, and just — 

Just — 

"Please, Daddy, please Daddy, *fuck* me!" 

Athos *shivers* next to him — 

And Daddy growls and crooks his fingers again — 

Porthos *shoves* himself down on Daddy's fingers — 

He needs it, he *needs* — 

"Oh, son..." 

"Please — *please* —" 

"If you keep that up... you'll be ready for a fourth finger *sooner*." 

Porthos's cock jerks and lifts *immediately* — 

Athos *moans* — 

"My sentiments precisely, son. Get down there and clean that cock *thoroughly*." 

Athos *grunts* — and moves, whimpering and *immediately* licking at all the spatters and drips of spend on Porthos's *belly* — 

Porthos groans and takes it, wants more, needs *more* — 

Athos licks a long stripe to Porthos's cock and tries to *swallow* it — 

He coughs and tries again — 

He coughs and tries *again* — and Daddy grips him by the hair and *keeps* him from lunging for more.

"Your throat is too swollen for that, son — and you *don't* want me to heal you, yet." 

Athos shakes his head *vehemently* — 

"Take *half* — or a little more than that. Porthos will give you more soon enough." 

Athos nods once — 

Daddy *releases* him — 

And Athos *works* Porthos's cock — 

As much of his cock as he can *handle* — 

Porthos groans and *shakes* — 

He's so *sensitive* — 

He's — 

He can't help riding Daddy's fingers even faster, trying — 

His body seems to think it'll ease the *ache* — 

"Doesn't it, son...?" 

Porthos blinks and groans and *drops*, gives over, just — 

Just *rides*, and watches Athos take him, and watches Daddy *take* him, and he can't — 

He's never *had* this — 

He's never had two people he's *cared* about working him *over* like this — 

He's never — 

He feels so — loved. 

Daddy growls and grips Athos by the hair again — 

(I... was definitely about to attempt to swallow him again. Hm.) 

Porthos gasps a laugh — 

It makes him clench — 

He groans and *shakes* — 

*Sweats* — 

"Open, son. Open right up and let me — let *us* — have you." 

And Porthos's body responds right away, just — just *blooms* for his Daddy, because that's a beautiful dream, a wonderful — 

(Truly, brother...?) 

"I — I — only if you *wanted* —" 

(Everything that pleases you,) Athos says, and *suckles* his cock — 

"Nnh —" 

(Everything that *serves* your pleasure,) Athos says, and slurps his way *off* — 

"Fuck —" 

And then starts to mouth and lick and suckle Porthos's growing knot, and that — 

Porthos is *yipping* — 

He — 

He *can't* ride anymore — 

His cock is jerking and spattering *everything* again —

"Good *boys*," Daddy says, and grips Porthos's *hip* — 

Holds him *still* — 

So *easily* — 

"You're *mine*," Daddy says, and Porthos's stomach drops *again* — 

Daddy *reams* him — 

Athos *works* his knot with his swollen-plush lips — 

Porthos is hard again, ready again, so — 

Daddy is making him feel how much he's wanted, *needed*, *loved* — 

*Athos* is making him *feel* — 

Porthos wants to *writhe* — 

"Be *still*." 

Porthos *chokes* on a yell and obeys, obeys, and he's feeling himself get more open, more loose, more *ready* — 

"*Almost*," Daddy says, coming back with more *oil*, and now the sounds are hot, *nasty*, so — 

So *wet* — 

"Just what I *like*, boys..." 

Athos *slurps* again — 

"*Good* boy —" 

Porthos *whines* — 

Daddy crooks his *fingers* — 

Porthos *barks*, cock jerking again, *again* — 

Athos takes his cock *in* again — 

Slurps and suckles and — 

*Fucks* himself — 

Fucks himself in the same rhythm *Daddy* is using — 

Porthos can't *breathe* — 

It — 

It's so bloody *good* — 

"Oh, there, there..." Daddy says, and — starts pushing with the fourth, starts — 

Porthos groans and shudders, groans and *shakes* — 

The stretch is *incredible* — 

Porthos has never *had* — 

(Oh... oh, I can *feel*...) 

"Oh, boys... I used to *beg* Kitos and Laurent to stretch me open *just* like this when they — and I — had the patience to wait for their cocks," Daddy says, and keeps pushing — 

Keeps *stretching* him — 

Keeps opening him so *wide* — 

(And... Jason?) 

"Absolutely. Though he enjoys my knot, as well," Daddy says, licking his lips and *staring* at Porthos's hole as he works that finger *in* — 

Porthos is so *hot* — 

So stretched and so *hot* — 

"Almost, son, almost — there," Daddy says, and *shoves* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

Athos groans around Porthos's *cock* — 

And Daddy doesn't wait. He starts fucking Porthos immediately with those four fingers, fucking so fast, so *rough* — 

His fingers are slick, *wet* with oil, but Porthos is *stuffed* — 

He — 

It's so hard and dirty and *rough* — 

Porthos is panting and groaning and tossing his *head* — 

"You're also trying to clench, son..." 

Porthos's eyes fly open and his arse *flexes* open — 

Daddy pants and grins *sharply*. "My boy," he says, and fucks Porthos fast, *fast* - 

So — 

"I can't wait, son —" 

"Oh —" 

"I can't wait any *longer* for you." 

Porthos's cock jerks and Athos *hums* for it — 

Porthos *arches* — 

"*Down*." 

Porthos yips and *drops* — 

"My boys are so perfect, so *beautiful*..." And Daddy growls and crooks *all* his fingers — 

Porthos *screams* — 

"*Take* it." 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Nnh — I. No. Now," Daddy says, and thrusts hard just three more times before pulling out slowly and steadily. 

He's panting — 

He's panting *hard* — and then he *isn't*. He's pulling his *power* back, tamping himself down and pulling himself under control until he can breathe slowly and evenly. 

Which — 

The part of Porthos which is thinking more clearly now *appreciates* that, and *admires* that, but mostly he's too empty to be able to really think about much more than the fact that he wants his Daddy to fuck him right bloody *now* — 

And then Daddy growls — and gleams at him. "Once I have my knot in you, son... I won't have any mercy."

Porthos *barks* again — "Please. Please, Daddy, now —" 

"Hand me the linen." 

"Fuck —" Porthos *obeys* — 

Daddy wipes his hand — 

Opens his breeches — 

Growls *more* and re-oils his hand —

Oils his *cock* — 

Porthos can't see it clearly past Athos's head, but — 

And then Daddy kneels up, and Porthos can see it, see that bloody *huge* and *animal* cock — 

So big — 

So thick and hard and *wet* — 

"Ready for you, son. *Aching* for you." 

"Please give it to me! Please —" 

"Right knee *up*." 

Porthos *yips* and obeys, holding his knee back to his *chest* — 

Athos is still *sucking* him — 

Porthos is back to not being able to *think* — 

And Daddy growls and growls and gives it to him, gives him his cock so sleek and steady and — not slow. 

Not slow, at *all*, and Porthos is groaning, shuddering — 

Trying so hard not to *clench* — 

"Stay. *Open*." 

And Porthos is loose, *loose*, ready for his Daddy, ready for *anything* — 

Daddy's cock is so hot — 

Daddy's cock is so *long* — 

There's so *much* — but then he's all the way in, and that *fat* knot is *pressed* against Porthos's hole, and Porthos feels small again, feels young, feels needy, feels *inexperienced* — 

"It won't last, son," Daddy says, smiling with sharp *teeth* — 

Porthos *clenches* — 

Daddy *gasps* — 

Pulls out and *shoves* in — 

"Daddy, *yes*!" 

Athos *pants* around Porthos's cock — 

He's stroking himself *off* again — 

He's —

Daddy grips Athos by the hair with one hand and holds Porthos's knee with the other hand and shoves in again — 

They all *groan* — 

But Daddy doesn't wait, doesn't — 

He shoves in *again*, *again*, and he's staring into Porthos's *eyes*, and Porthos is so needy, so *hungry*, so *full* — 

"Please *fuck* me!" 

"More. You need *more*," Daddy says, *growls*, and *works* Athos's head on Porthos's *cock* — 

Athos groans and *shudders* — 

Porthos *whimpers* — 

"*Yes*," Daddy says, and fucks Porthos in the same rhythm, fucks him fast, fucks him *raw*, and it's so good, so *good* — 

Long, hot, *sleek* strokes — 

So — 

Daddy is filling him *up* — 

Daddy is making him *feel* him — 

"No," he says, and grins savagely. "*Now* I am." 

And the *force* of Daddy's want, Daddy's *hunger* fills him again, *wracks* him again, works him over and — 

But it gets stronger this time. 

It gets — 

It's a hand on the back of his neck and a hand on his bollocks and a growl in his ear — 

It's every *day* Porthos wasn't in Daddy's arms, wasn't in Daddy's *grip* — 

Every day for a *generation* — 

(*Now* you feel me...) 

Porthos opens, *opens* and needs — 

He just needs Daddy to *have* him — 

Finally *have* him — 

(Now you're *ready*,) Daddy says, and the *force* of him eases enough for Porthos to see his hot, wild blue eyes as he — 

Pushes — 

As he pushes in with his *knot* — 

As he *rocks* in — 

Porthos gasps and doesn't clench, doesn't *clench* — 

He can't breathe — 

"*Breathe*!" 

He gasps — 

Athos gasps *around* him — 

Porthos shivers and whines and whines and tries to spread himself *wider* — 

"Good *boy*," Daddy says, rocking in, in, so — 

He's so *big*, so hot, so — 

Porthos *has* to take him, has to take his *Daddy*, has to rock right back into Daddy's thrusts and — 

Oh, it's deeper, it's so much deeper, it's opening him so *wide* — 

"So — oh, son, oh, son, you're almost *there*," Daddy says and rocks in, *in*, and Porthos has to — 

He takes Daddy's *rhythm* — 

He sobs and *takes* Daddy's rhythm — 

Athos *nibbles* Porthos's cock — 

Porthos *slams* back on Daddy's knot — 

Daddy howls and *shoves* — 

It *pops* in — 

Porthos *screams* a howl — 

"*HNH* —" And Daddy looks staggered, hot, thrilled and satisfied and starved all at once. "Now you're full. Now you're *mine*," he says, and pants like a *bellows* before lifting Athos off Porthos's *cock* — 

Athos whimpers — 

"Be. A little patient now." 

"*Yes*, sir —" 

"*Good* boy," Daddy says, kissing Athos hard and then *putting* him on his back — 

"Nnh —" And Porthos can hear him tossing himself off fast, fast, *fast* — 

But Porthos can't see again — 

Porthos can't — 

He's so *full* — 

He's so — 

He's so *hard* and Daddy's got him *stuffed* — 

"And I'm just getting started," Daddy says, covering him and biting Porthos's *throat* — 

Porthos *yells* — 

Daddy breaks the *skin* — 

Porthos *drops* — 

(*Perfect*,) Daddy says, and starts to — 

To *rut*. 

Short, brutal thrusts — 

Short and — so rough — so — 

Every last one of them *slams* Daddy's knot against Porthos's pleasure-button — 

It's so big — 

It's so *big*, and Daddy is *barking* into Porthos's *throat* and — 

Porthos's eyes roll *up* — 

He clutches Daddy with his *thighs* — 

Daddy fucks him *harder* — 

Porthos's cock is twitching, jerking, leaking all over the *fur* on Daddy's belly — 

So soft and silky — 

Not like hair — 

Everything about this is different, so *different* — 

(You were meant to have the *dog*, son.) 

Porthos *yips* and sobs — 

Clutches tighter — 

Claws at the sheets and tries to remember why he's not clutching Daddy with his *hands*, if that would be bad, if he's *allowed* — 

He needs — 

(*Hold* me!) 

Porthos clutches him, holds him tight, holds his Daddy and whines and whines and *takes* it, takes every rutting *slam* of that cock, so big, so *hard* — 

So *deep* — 

Daddy can't pull *out* — 

He *stays* deep every time, and — 

Oh, fuck, they're *tied*!

(That's *right*. You're not. You're not going *anywhere*,) Daddy says, and swivels his *hips* — 

Porthos opens his mouth to *moan* again, but winds up howling in Daddy's *ear*, winds up losing everything, *everything*, and his spine is igniting, his thighs are quivering, his *belly* is quivering — 

He aches — 

He *aches* — 

Everything is so good and he *aches*, he can't *see* — 

(Then why don't you spend...?) 

Porthos *gasps* — 

Goes *rigid* — 

(*Clench*.) 

Porthos obeys and *howls* again, howls because he's burning all over, because that hurts so *perfectly*, because — 

(Now *spend*!) 

And then he's spurting, just like that, just like that for his Daddy — 

(Good *boy*,) Daddy says, and fucks him *harder*, fucks him *violently*, and it feels like he's fucking the spend *out* of Porthos, like Daddy is making every spasm happen -- 

Daddy can do *anything he bloody wants* — 

(You're *mine*.) 

Porthos spurts again — 

*Again* — 

There's so *much*, and he's whining helplessly, licking at Daddy everywhere he can reach, begging wordlessly for more, for relief, for *more* — 

(*Yes*,) Daddy says. shoving one hand under Porthos's right shoulder and the other hand in Porthos's hair — 

Gripping Porthos and holding him down all at *once* — 

He's still *biting* — 

He's — 

He's *growling* — 

And he's shoving that fat cock in over and over again, so fast, so perfect, so perfectly *animal*, and Porthos *does* want the dog someday, wants everything from his Daddy, wants to be taken over and used and ridden hard and put away *wet* — 

(HNH —) 

Wants his Daddy to mark him all over like he did Reynard and — 

(*Shit* —) And Daddy bites *deeper* — 

Porthos *croons* as he feels his blood flow — 

Feels himself *giving* to his Daddy — 

Just the way he's *supposed* to — 

And Daddy howls into his *neck* — 

Howls loud and hungry and *desperate* as he *pounds* Porthos — and fills him. 

It's even hotter than his *knot*, and there's — 

Fuck, there's so *much* — 

Porthos croons more and pets Daddy, strokes him, *keeps* him — 

Daddy pants and pants — 

Howls *again* — 

He's still pounding *in* — 

Still *spurting* — 

Fucking into his own mess and *growling* into Porthos's neck — 

Making Porthos shiver and think seriously about another *go* — 

And then Daddy *stops* growling. (Is that so...) 

"Uhh...." 

(Nnh — mm. Mm. Do tell, son...) And Daddy starts *licking* at the bites on Porthos's neck — 

Licking them *healed* — 

It sends *zings* of feeling all *through* him — 

It makes Porthos's *cock* jerk — 

(Tell me *everything*...) 

Porthos pants -- 

Just *lives* in the feeling of Daddy *inside* him -- 

All that *heat* -- 

Daddy *rumbles* against his neck. (Anytime, son. But...) 

"Uh... well. Sometimes I fuck myself with my toy... a couple of times a night." 

Daddy pulls back and pushes up on his hands. "Tell me about this toy." 

"Leather over wood, rough stitching —" 

"Bloody hell, son." 

"Mm?" 

"I would've done something terrible to a *very* nice person for a toy like that when I was a recruit..." And Daddy looks dreamy. 

And Athos *feels* dreamy. 

They both check on him. 

He's lying on his side *strangling* his cock — and thinking about Porthos and Daddy taking turns reaming him with a leather and wood toy. 

Porthos licks his lips and tries to focus a bit better. "Right, brother, but we'd *probably* rather use our cocks —" 

"It's only... your toy sounds so *cruel*." 

Daddy snickers like a boy, rests on top of Porthos — 

"Oh, *yeah* —" 

*Knocks* Athos's hand aside none too gently — 

"Oh — oh, *sir* —" 

"I'm afraid I'm constitutionally incapable of moving enough to give you Porthos's cock again just yet, son, but," Daddy says, and starts to toss Athos off *viciously*. "I believe we can compromise." 

"I — I —" 

"What do *you* think, mm?" 

"Please *harder* —" And Athos *screams* — 

"Are you squeezing him while you stroke him, Daddy?" 

"And turning my nails on him." 

Porthos shivers. "That is... well." 

"Mm?" 

Athos screams again — 

*Again* — 

Throws his head back and bites his lip hard enough to make it *bleed* again — 

"You were saying, son?" 

"I'm going to have to try that." 

"That you are, son." And Daddy growls low. "Athos. *Spend*." 

Athos bucks and bucks and spurts all over both of them, *choking* on a scream before just gasping over and over again and shuddering. 

His eyes are dazed and wild and *lost* — 

His body is tensed and flushed and *gorgeous* — 

And he smells good enough to *eat*. 

Daddy looks at *him* — and shows his still-sharp teeth. "Sometimes being tied is an excellent way to ensure you'll behave yourself, son." 

Porthos snorts. "Oh, *is* it?" 

Daddy pulls on a mock-judicious expression and nods — and then turns back to Athos. "Come closer, son. Grind all that spend *right* into our skin." 

Athos pants and blinks and blinks more — "Yes, sir." 

It takes a little maneuvering, but Porthos gets an arm around Athos without murdering his welts too badly — 

And Daddy does the same — 

And then they cuddle right in. 

"*This* is decadent," Athos says after a moment. 

Porthos has to *fight* himself not to clutch Athos *harder* — 

And Daddy hums. "We'll teach you better definitions of that word, son." 

"*That*. Bloody *that*." 

"Hmm. I suspect I'll always find being naked in the arms of a lover — or lovers — at least somewhat decadent. There's always been such defined *purpose* to nudity, to physical closeness, to —" 

"Right, well, now I know you people didn't play with him enough when he was little." 

Daddy laughs. "He always wanted to play *soldiers*. He wouldn't *let* us play other games with him." 

"You should've tried *harder*, Daddy —" 

Daddy snickers hard — 

"I... *why* should they have tried harder?" 

Daddy and Porthos *look* at Athos. 

"Hm. I take it that there *is* an obvious explanation that I'm too much myself to comprehend at the moment." 

"You can blame it on spending yourself blind, son," Daddy says gently. 

"I —" 

"We'll teach you the lesson, brother. While we're teaching you what *real* decadence is."

"Perhaps if one of you could give me an *example* —" 

"Here's one: Once we can move? Daddy's going to make me suckle and mouth you slowly and viciously and *nastily* while he does *something* bloody wonderful to me —" 

"I have any number of ideas —" 

"I knew you would, Daddy. In *any* event, he's not going to let *either* of us spend until we're sweating and aching and sobbing and *begging* for it." 

"Oh..." 

"Yeah, eh?" 

"That seems..." 

"Yeah, brother?" 

"We do have to wake up early tomorrow..." 

"And this will make us stay up *late*." 

"Yes, and —" 

"*Decadence*, brother. You can't have it *all* the time." 

Athos huffs. 

A lot. 

A *lot* — 

Daddy grins. "Yes, son?" 

"I believe I'm going to spend a great deal of time working to convince both of you otherwise." 

Porthos snorts — 

Daddy sighs. "My boys are *exceptional*." 

"Because I've utterly lost *my* work ethic, sir?" 

Porthos coughs -- "*Brother* --" 

"Because you've lost it for the best possible *reasons*, son," Daddy says, and grins. "Porthos doesn't realize how much time and effort we put into trying to get you to *relax* a little when you were a boy." 

"Right, no, I can imagine, but he hasn't *lost his work ethic* --" 

"Porthos." 

"Brother --" 

"Porthos," Athos says again, and raises an eyebrow. "I don't want my opinions back, I don't want to be healed, and I don't want to do anything for the foreseeable future which doesn't involve absolutely wallowing in the two of *you*." 

Porthos *stares*. 

Daddy snickers. "There's always one, son." 

"Daddy --" 

"Every generation, every unit --" 

"*Daddy* --" 

Daddy snickers harder. "We'll get you your commission soon enough, Porthos. Once you're both killing people excitingly for King and country, he'll get some of his verve back." 

"Sodding --" 

"Certainly, it worked for Reynard." 

Porthos stops. 

Athos blinks.

And Daddy yips and yips and *yips* laughter, pressing Porthos right down to the bed and -- making the world brighter. 

Porthos and Athos share a look and grin at each other. 

And then they settle *right* in.


	12. Together.

Porthos wakes up confused, because it's dark — 

And the bed is *huge* — 

And he has a face full of *fur* —

And his *arse* is sore — oh. 

Oh. 

Porthos laughs quietly. 

The dog shifts enough to look at him curiously, eyes gleaming that pale, moonlit blue. Porthos had been lying on his flank. 

*Athos* is curled up to the dog's other side — 

Sleeping *deeply* still — 

So *peacefully*...

(Porthos Porthos?) 

No, I. It's good to see. 

(Good to have! Pack should always be together,) the dog says, and leans over to lick Athos's cheek before looking to him again. (Come down! Cuddle!) 

Athos mutters something in his sleep which sounds like a seduction. 

The *dog* tugs on Porthos's spirit gently but firmly — 

And they don't have to be awake for a little while, yet. 

Porthos smiles and leans in to lick the dog's nose — 

(Nice! NICE!) 

Yeah, eh? I'll remember that, Porthos says, and lies back down on the dog's flank. Sleep well. 

(You too, good boy!) 

Porthos grins and closes his eyes. 

end.


End file.
